GIFT  OF 
Ella  Sterling 


APRIL  ,» 
WJANC1SCO,     CALIF, 


"'MARROK,'  SAID  THE  LADY,  'IT  is  YOU  IN  SOOTH?'" 


mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmUmmmun 

ST  NICHOLAS  BGDKS 

S1IR  MARROK 

A  TALE  OF  THE 
DAYS  OF 

ARTHURS 

ALLEN   FRENCH 


NEWYORK-THECENTURYCO  M.CMII 


.Copyright,  1902,  by*    '  '" 


Published  October,  1902 

GIFT  OP 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS 


//O 


IN  GRATEFUL  REMEMBRANCE  OF 
FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FRENCH 


Note  on  the  diction  of  "Sir  MarroJc." 
— u  Thee"  and  "you"  are  used  inter 
changeably  in  the  singular,  follow 
ing  the  example  of  Malory, — a  sin 
gle  sentence  in  whose  "Morte  dj Ar 
thur"  suggested  this  story,— except 
that  for  euphony  "you  "  is  occasion 
ally  employed  in  the  nominative,  as 
well  as  in  the  dative  and  accusative 
cases,  rather  than  Malory's  "ye." 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

i    How  MARROK  WAS  CHOSEN  FOR  A 

GREAT  TASK 3 

ii    How  MARROK  JOURNEYED  TO  BEDE- 

GRAINE 14 

in    OF   THE  BEGINNING   OF   MARROK'S 

TASK 23 

iv    How  THE    LAND   OF    BEDEGRAINE 

WAS  CLEANSED 32 

v  OF  THE  HONOR  WHICH  WAS  GIVEN 
MARROK  AT  THE  COURT  OF  THE 
KING,  AND  OF  DIVERS  OTHER 
MATTERS 38 

vi    How  MARROK  WAS   SUMMONED   BY 

AN  HERALD 49 

vn  How  AGATHA  THE  NURSE  ADVISED 
MARROK,  AND  OF  WHAT  THE 
KNIGHT  DID  .  63 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

vni    OF  THE  DEPARTURE  or  MARROK 

TO  THE  WAR 75 

ix    HOAV  IT   FARED  IN  BEDEGRAINE 

WITH  MARROK  AWAY    ....    81 

x  YET  MORE  OF  WHAT  HAPPENED  IN 
BEDEGRAINE  IN  MARROK'S  AB 
SENCE  93 

xi  WHETHER  SIR  KOGER  OR  THE 
LADY  BROKE  THE  OATH  WHICH 
THEY  SWARE  TO  SIR  MARROK  .  101 

xn    OF  MARROK'S  KETURN,  AND  OF  THE 

MAGIC  OF  THE  LADY  IRMA    .    .  108 

xin    WHAT  MARROK  FOUND  IN  BEDE 
GRAINE 117 

xiv    How   THE    GREAT    OPPORTUNITY 

CAME  TO  MARROK 123 

xv    OF  MARROK  AND  THE  WOLVES,  AND 

OF  OTHER  MATTERS 136 

xvi    How  THE  DOINGS  OF  THE  WOLF 

CAME  TO  THE  EARS  OF  IRMA     .  144 

xvn    THE  STORY  OF  ANDRED,  WHO  WAS 

TAKEN  BY  THE  EOBBERS  .    .     .  150 

xvin    THE  STORY  OF   THE   SWINEHERD 

BLAISE.  .  157 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX      OF    NORRIS    THE   MONK,  AND   HOW 

HE  WAS  SENT  INTO  THE  FOREST, 
AND  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  HIM 
THERE 1.  .  .  .  1G8 

xx    How  WAT,  THE  SON  OF  WAT,  TRIED 

TO  TRAP  THE  GREAT  WOLF  .     .  182 

xxi  THE  STORY  OF  THE  SON  OF  SIR 
SlMON,  AND  OF  THE  QUESTING- 
BEAST 192 

xxn  How  BENNET  AND  FATHER  JOHN 
WERE  DRIVEN  FROM  THEIR 
HOMES 206 

xxin  How  ANSELM  FELL  SICK  UNTO 
DEATH,  AND  WHO  BECAME  AB 
BOT  IN  HIS  STEAD 216 

xxiv    THE  HUNTING  OF  SIR  MARROK     .  228 

XXV    HOW  SIR  ROGER  OF  THE  KOCK 

QUIT  HIM  OF  SIR  MORCAR    .    .  240 

xxvi    OF  HUGH,  WHO  WOULD  HAVE  SLAIN 

THE  WOLF,  AND  OF  AGATHA  THE 

NURSE 255 

xxvii  OF  THE  STRANGER  KNIGHT  WHO 
CAME  FROM  THE  NORTH,  WHICH 
BRINGETH  AN  END  TO  THIS 
TALE  .  263 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"Marrok,"    said   the   lady,    "it  is   yon    in 

sooth?" Frontispiece 

Sir  Marrok  receives  the  herald  of  the  king     53 

But  there,  as  he  turned  to  the  altar,  stood 

a  great  gray  wolf  and  looked  at  them  211 

The  wolf  spread  the  letter  out,  and  stood 
with  wrinkled  forehead,  scanning  the 
lines 221 

Hugh  was  hurled  into  the  depths      .     .     .  259 

Marrok   turned   to   his  son,  dropped  his 

sword,  and  held  out  his  arms      .     .     .277 


xiii 


SIR  MARROK 


SIR  MARROK 


CHAPTEE  I 

HOW   MARROK   WAS    CHOSEN   FOR   A 
GREAT    TASK 

As  Uther  sat  within  his  hall 
And  looked  around  upon  his  men, 

He  chose  the  youngest  of  them  all 
To  cleanse  the  land  of  Bedegraine. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

THIS  is  the  story  of  Sir  Marrols,  known 
as  well  as  we  *caii  Vk'n6*w  it  from  the 
Lay  of  Sir  Marrok^  -Which1  *  i ?knft ;  '-e^rly 
English  times  has  come  down  to  us  in 
fragments.  Older  than  the  Lay  was  the 
Chronicle  of  Sir  Marrok,  written  by 
the  Abbot  John,  and  read  only  by  the 
clerkly.  But  the  unlettered  people  learned 
the  story  from  the  mouths  of  minstrels 
singing  the  Lay;  and  all  we  know  of  it  is 
3 


Sir  Marrok 

also  from  the  Lay,  for  the  Chronicle  is 
lost.  Such  of  the  story  as  has  come 
down  to  us,  with  many  gaps  and  breaks, 
is  written  here. 

In  the  old,  old  days,  when  the  religion 
of  the  gentle  Christ  was  still  young  in  the 
land  of  Britain,  and  the  love  of  God  had 
not  everywhere  come  to  the  hearts  of  men, 
there  lived  and  ruled  in  England  the  noble 
Uther  Pendragon.  A  wise  king  was  he 
in  his  generation,  ruling  by  right  as  well 
as  might,  and  gathering  about  him  that 
body  of  true  knights  who  were  called  the 
company  of  the  Table  Hound,  whose  oath 
was  to  do  justly  and  to  succor  the  op 
pressed.  All 'have  read  how,  in  the  days 
of.  Art (ii>r,  the  Round  Table  set  example 
to  all  the  world  of  chivalry  and  prowess. 
Yet  it  was  Uther  who  first  assembled  the 
noble  company,  meaning  with  its  help  to 
redeem  the  fair  kingdom  from  the  sad 
barbarism  which  had  existed  before  his 
day.  Far  and  wide,  to  the  extent  of  his  ' 
power,  did  Uther  right  the  wronged  and 
4 


Marrok  is  Chosen  for  a  Great  Task 

set  the  land  in  order.  Yet  Britain  was 
great,  and  in  its  many  remote  places  still 
flourished  the  old  wrong-doing.  And  of 
all  the  canker-spots  that  disgraced  his 
realm,  Bedegraine  was  the  worst. 

For  the  land  of  Bedegraine,  fair  and 
fertile,  held  that  great  forest  which  in  the 
days  of  Uther  was  called  the  Forest  of 
Bedegraine,  but  in  later  days  was  named 
the  Forest  of  Sherwood.  And  that  great 
wood  of  oak  and  beech  was  as  a  strong 
hold  in  which  wrong-doers  were  safe. 
Large  were  the  trees  and  beautiful  the 
glades,  and  lovely  as  cathedrals,  not 
built  by  men,  were  the  aisles  of  the  pri 
meval  forest.  Through  it  ran,  from  south 
to  north,  the  ancient  Roman  road,  turf- 
grown  yet  broad  and  unencumbered,  a 
highway  still  from  London  to  the  realm 
of  Scotland.  Men  might  have  lived  in 
Bedegraine  in  peace,  and  trade  have  sent 
her  trains  of  merchants  through  the  forest. 
Yet  in  the  unknown  fastnesses  of  the 
wood  lurked  robbers,  and  preyed  upon 
5 


Sir  Marrok 

the  country  round  about.  There  lived 
beasts:  wolves  in  packs,  a  menace  to  all 
solitary  travelers;  and  boars  in  herds, 
which,  issuing  from  the  forest  in  the 
night,  laid  waste  the  fields  of  the  peas 
ants.  Only  those  who  could  fence 
strong!}7  might  subsist  upon  a  farm;  only 
those  who  were  well  armed  could  brave 
the  wolves  alone;  while  neither  fences 
nor  arms  could  check  the  robbers  as  they 
assaulted  merchant  trains  or  burned  and 
wasted  the  homesteads  of  the  peasants. 

Hard  was  the  lot  of  the  man  who, 
peaceable  and  steady,  wished  but  to 
bring  up  his  family  in  peace.  For  the 
boars  rooted  in  his  fields;  the  wolves 
killed  his  cattle  when  they  strayed;  and 
the  robbers,  if  in  their  raids  they  did  not 
burn  his  house,  at  least  took  the  wheat 
that  would  have  fed  his  family.  So,  half 
starved,  the  children  grew  to  stunted 
manhood,  haggard  women  worked  within 
houses  which  were  but  huts,  and  fearsome 
men  toiled  by  day  in  the  fields,  or  tightly 
6 


Marrok  is  Chosen  for  a  Great  Task 

barred  the  door  at  night.  Bedegraine 
was  like  a  fertile  land  laid  waste.  True 
religion  was  not  there,  for  Druid  priests, 
strange  men  whom  even  the  robbers  held 
in  awe,  alone  held  rites  within  Bedegraine, 
and  at  the  great  stone  ring  within  the 
forest,  upon  their  rugged  altar,  made 
sacrifice.  And  witches  and  warlocks,  un 
holy  people,  worked  ill  on  all  the  country 
side.  Peace  was  not  in  Bedegraine,  nor 
any  content;  while  deeds  of  violence  made 
the  forest,  and  the  open  land  that  fringed 
it,  a  place  to  be  avoided. 

Only  one  man  in  Bedegraine  strove  to 
do  justly  and  to  live  uprightly:  Sir  Simon 
of  the  Lea,  ancestor  of  that  gentle  knight 
Sir  Richard  of  the  Lea,  of  whom  we  read 
in  the  Lay  of  Robin  Hood.  Sir  Simon 
lived  in  his  wooden  grange,  which  stood 
upon  a  knoll  almost  within  the  shadow  of 
the  forest;  and  round  about  him  were  the 
glebes  of  his  peasants,  and  their  houses, 
the  best  in  Bedegraine.  For  the  strong 
hand  of  Sir  Simon,  no  longer  young 


Sir  Marrok 

though  the  knight  was,  kept  at  some  dis 
tance  the  robbers,  and  in  greater  peace 
than  elsewhere  men  might  till  their  fields 
and  reap  their  crops.  And  Sir  Simon, 
with  his  two  young  daughters  and  his 
son,  lived  almost  in  -quiet  until  that  rob 
ber  raid  which  begins  this  story. 

For  in  one  dreadful  night  uproar  and 
alarm  roused  the  knight  from  his  bed, 
and  from  the  upper  windows  of  his  grange 
he  beheld  the  burning  houses  of  his  peas 
ants,  while  from  the  barns  the  robbers 
were  gathering  the  stores  into  carts,  and 
were  collecting  the  cattle  together  to 
drive  into  the  forest.  And  when  Sir 
Simon,  in  wrath  and  haste,  armed  his 
retainers  and  sallied  forth  against  the 
robbers,  they  turned  upon  him,  and  soon 
with  arrows  slew  the  foremost  of  his  men, 
and  drove  him  back  again  within  the 
grange.  Nay,  they  even  threatened  to 
burn  with  fire  the  wooden  house,  and  only 
when  day  came  departed  to  the  forest. 
And  when  the  bright  sun  was  high,  Sir 
8 


Mar r ok  is  Chosen  for  a  Great  Task 

Simon  looked  upon  farms  laid  waste, 
with  many  buildings, burned;  then,  when 
one  by  one  his  vassals  crept  from  their 
hiding-places,  and  the  knight  gathered 
them  all  at  the  grange,  twelve  there  were 
who  answered  not  to  the  call  of  their 
names. 

Sir  Simon  was  in  despair,  and  he  said 
to  himself:  "Truly  the  outlaws  are 
stronger  than  I.  More  and  more  nu 
merous  grow  they  every  year.  How  can  I 
longer  protect  my  people,  or  save  even 
this  corner  of  Bedegraine  from  misery?" 
Then,  as  he  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  a 
means  of  succor,  a  thought  came  to  him, 
and  he  said:  "I  will  beg  help  from  the 
king." 

So  Sir  Simon  called  his  daughter,  who 
had  some  clerkly  knowledge,  and  bade 
her  write  the  words  he  spoke.  He  sent 
the  letter  to  Uther  by  a  trusty  messenger, 
and  the  parchment  was  delivered  to  Uther 
in  his  hall.  The  king  sat  on  the  dais, 
before  him  his  knights  in  their  order,  and 
9 


Sir  Marrok 

an  old  squire  came  into  the  hall  and  laid 
the  letter  in  the  king's  hand.  And  the 
king,  when  the  letter  had  been  read  to 
him,  frowned. 

"Much  have  I  heard,"  he  said,  "of 
Bedegraine,  where  none  respect  my  laws. 
And  I  remember  Sir  Simon,  who  in  years 
past  was  a  hardy  fighter  and  not  given  to 
complain  groundlessly.  For  his  sake, 
and  for  mine  honor,  shall  his  land  be 
purified."  This  he  said  in  the  hearing 
of  his  chamberlain  Ulfius,  who  stood  by 
him  on  the  dais.  Then  he  looked  upon 
his  knights  and  said:  "Which  shall  I 
send?" 

There  sat  before  him  many  fair  knights 
and  men  of  great  prowess.  Some  had 
killed  dragons,  and  some  had  killed  giants, 
and  most  had  fought  many  battles  against 
great  odds.  Only  one  among  them  was  a 
young  unproved  knight,  and  he  sat  at  the 
very  lowest  seat  of  the  great  table.  Uther, 
for  all  that  his  other  knights  were  well 
tested,  felt  his  heart  go  out  greatly  to  the 
10 


Marrok  is  Chosen  for  a  Great  Task 

young  untried   knight,    but   at   his    side 
Ulfius  suggested: 
,  "  Send  Brastias." 

"Nay,"  answered  Uther,  "for  he  is 
hasty  and  overbold."  And  he  looked 
upon  the  young  knight's  brow  and  saw 
great  caution  written  there. 

"Then,"   send   Ulfius,  "send   Colgre- 


vance." 


"  Nay,"  replied  Uther,  "  for  cautious  is 
he  indeed,  but  of  great  patience  is  he  not; 
and  this  is  no  task  to  be  performed  lightly, 
in  a  little  space."  And  Uther  looked 
upon  the  young  knight  again,  and  saw  in 
his  face  the  signs  of  perseverance. 

"  Then,"  said  Ulfius,  yet  once  more, 
"  send  Fergus." 

"Nay,"  answered  the  king,  "for  cau 
tious  is  he,  and  knoweth  never  that  he  is 
beaten,  but  he  hath  not  the  knowledge  to 
raise  a  people  up."  And  Uther  looked 
yet  once  more  upon  the  young  knight, 
and  saw  in  his  countenance  kindness  and 
great  sympathy. 

11 


Sir  Marrok 

"  Then,"  said  Ulfius,  for  the  last  time, 
"  if  this  be  so  great  a  task,  why  send  ye 
not  King  Pellinore,  who  ruleth  the  west 
ern  marches?" 

But  Uther  shook  his  head,  for  Pellinore 
could  not  be  spared  from  defending  his 
kingdom.  And  the  king  looked  for  the 
last  time  of  doubt  upon  the  young  knight. 
He  liked  the  strong  frame,  and  the  firm 
mouth,  and  the  black  hair,  and  the 
kindly  brown  eyes.  And  he  said:  UI 
will  send  Marrok !  " 

"  1ST  ay,"  cried  Ulfius,  "for  he  is  young 
and  poor,  and  hath  not  even  a  squire  to 
his  following.  First  ask  advice  of  Mer 
lin."  He  persuaded  the  king  to  send  for 
the  magician,  and  Merlin  came. 

But  before  ever  word  was  spoken  to 
Merlin,  he  said  to  the  king:  "Send 
Marrok." 

Then  was  the  king  astonished,  and  Ul 
fius  beyond  measure.  And  Uther  said: 
'  This  passes  belief.  How  knewest  thou 
what  I  wished  to  ask?"  But  Merlin 
12 


Marrok  is  Chosen  for  a  Great  Task 

smiled  in  his  great  white  beard,  and  turned 
away  and  went  again,  among  his  books 
and  studies.  But  Uther  commanded  Mar 
rok  to  stand  before  the  throne. 

"  Marrok,"  said  Uther,  "thou  hast  asked 
a  quest." 

"  Yea,  my  liege." 

"  Instead,  take  thou  a  fief.  Go,  set  in 
order  my  land  of  Bedegraine !  " 

Then  Marrok  bowed,  and  kneeling  be 
fore  the  king,  took  into  his  keeping  the 
land  of  Bedegraine.  'Twas  banishment; 
what  of  that?  Kings  in  those  days  were 
the  instruments  of  God,  men  but  the  in 
struments  of  kings.  So  Marrok  went 
to  prepare  for  the  journey. 


13 


CHAPTEE  II 

HOW   MAKROK   JOURNEYED    TO 
BEDE  GRAEME 

Oh,  fair  to  see  is  the  green  ivy, 
And  oh,  the  thorn  doth  blossom  sweet, 

But  neither  weed  nor  wilding  tree 
Is  half  so  good  as  the  springing  wheat. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

TO  Marrok,  as  he  armed  himself 
within  his  lodging,  came  the  noble 
King  Pellinore,  he  who  was  hardiest 
fighter  of  all  the  knights  of  Uther,  and 
who  kept  the  boundaries  to  Uther7  s  do 
mains  against  the  enemies  of  the  north 
west.  And  he  would  not  let  the  young 
knight  arm  himself,  but  held  for  him  his 
armor,  and  buckled  it  on,  and  girt  him 
with  his  sword,  and  led  out  the  horse 
from  the  stables.  Then  he  took  the 
young  man's  hand  and  said: 

''  I  know  to  what  task  thou  goest,  and 
14 


Of  Mar r ok' s  Journey  to  Bedegraine 

I  know  the  kind  of  enemy  that  thou  must 
fight.  One  thing  do  thou  remember  al 
ways  in  thy  fighting :  ""Strike  first !  "  And 
he  pressed  the  young  man's  hand  and 
wished  him  good  speed,  and  they  parted. 

Marrok  rode  away  out  of  the  town  of 
London  and  set  his  horse's  head  to  the 
north.  He  had  lived  always  in  the  south ; 
he  loved  the  peaceful  towns  and  hamlets 
which  Uther  had  made  secure;  he  knew 
not  to  what  he  was  going.  But  he  hung 
his  helmet  on  his  saddle-bo^f,  and  eased 
his  horse's  pace,  for  the  journey  would 
take  many  days.  And  as  he  rode,  there 
stood  in  the  way  an  old,  old  man,  and 
asked  an  alms.  Marrok  looked  within  his 
purse.  He  had  but  a  single  piece  of  money, 
and  that  was  a  piece  of  gold ;  but  he  gave 
it  to  the  beggar. 

Then  the  old  man  smiled  and  thanked 
him,  and  said :  "  Once  was  I  young  as 
thou,  and  had  the  world  before  me.  And 
never  have  I  taken  gift  without  return. 
Take  thou  this  my  purse,  which  once  was 
15 


Sir  Marrok 

filled."  And  he  gave  to  the  knight  an 
empty  leathern  purse,  and  said  yet  more : 

"  In  this  task  which  thou  goest  to  ful 
fil  there  is  preparation  for  a  yet  harder 
task  to  come.  In  the  one  shalt  thou  suc 
ceed  according  as  thou  succeedest  in  the 
other.  But  in  neither  shalt  thou  prosper 
if  thou  failest  in  thy  duty  to  thy  king." 

Then  Marrok  cried:  "If  I  fail  in  my 
duty  to  King  Uther,  may  all  my  desires 
fail  me!" 

But  the  old  man  answered,  "I  speak 
not  of  this  king,  but  of  the  king  that  shall 
come  after  him."  He  seemed  to  grow 
taller  and  more  majestic;  then  suddenly, 
as  the  young  man  looked  in  wonder,  he 
was  alone  on  the  white  and  sunny  road. 

'  That  was  Merlin,"  he  said,  astonished. 
Anon  as  he  looked  at  the  purse  within 
his  hand  it  became  heavy  and  was  filled 
with  gold,  enough  for  a  long  journey. 
But  Marrok,  as  he  rode  northward,  thought 
not  of  the  gold,  but  pondered  on  the  say 
ing  of  the  wise  man.  Yet  not  till  after- 
16 


Of  Mar r ok9 s  Journey  to  Bedegraine 

years  did  he  understand  who  the  king 
should  he  that  should  come  after  Uther, 
nor  learn  that  Merlin  was  preparing  the 
throne  for  Arthur,  who  as  yet  was  but  a 
boy  and  unknown. 

The  knight  rode  upon  his  journey,  and 
for  many  days  pressed  to  the  northward. 
If  Merlin's  gold  helped  him,  so  also  did 
the  advice  of  the  crafty  Pellinore.  For 
the  young  man  learned  that,  whether  in 
the  daylight  or  the  dark,  the  hostel  or  the 
open  road,  so  long  as  they  were  ruffians 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal  (and  as  he 
went  ever  farther  from  London,  ever  he 
found  more  lawless  men),  it  was  wise  to 
strike  first  and  briskly  begin.  But  with 
knights  and  men  of  experience  it  was 
wiser  to  wait  and  make  a  plan.  And  he 
came  into  places  where  he  could  trust  no 
man,  where  he  lay  down  in  his  armor  and 
slept  with  his  sword  by  his  side.  But 
ever  he  heard,  as  he  inquired  the  road, 
that  the  outlaws  of  Bedegraine  were  the 
worst  in  all  England,  and  that  in  the  land 

2  17 


Sir  Marrok 

was  neither  inn  nor  church  for  man  to  get 
either  bodily  or  spiritual  food ;  where  was 
always  famine,  and  violence,  and  death. 
But  the  young  man  strengthened  his  heart. 

At  last  upon  a  day,  as  he  inquired  his 
road,  a  man  said  to  him :  "  Beyond  that 
ridge  lies  Bedegraine,  and  you  can  look 
down  upon  a  waste."  Then  Marrok  knew 
that  the  land  was  but  two  leagues  off. 
Yet  he  asked  his  informer  more. 

"  In  Bedegraine,"  he  said,  "  go  all 
men  as  here,  with  swords  and  leathern 
jerkins?  " 

The  man  laughed.  "Nay,"  he  said. 
And  yet  he  checked  his  laugh  and  low 
ered  his  voice.  "Here  we  go  armed 
against  the  robbers  of  Bedegraine,  who 
once  in  a  while  come  over  the  ridge  and 
fall  upon  us.  But  in  Bedegraine  no  peas 
ant  dares  to  bear  arms,  lest  the  outlaws 
kill  him.  For  if  he  works  in  peace  they 
rob  but  do  not  slay;  and  so  they  live 
upon  the  land.  But  if  the  peasants  but 
bear  knives  are  their  farms  raided,  as 
18 


Of  Marrok' s  Journey  to  Bedegraine 

were  those  of  the  men  of  Sir  Simon,  these 
six  weeks  gone."  *& 
/  Then  Marrok  thanked  the  man  and  rode 
on,  but  his  heart  was  heavy,  for  never 
had  he  met  men  so  spiritless  that  they 
dared  not  rise  up  against  tyranny.  And 
he  pictured  himself  Bedegraine  as  a  very 
desert;  but  when  he  reached  the  ridge 
and  looked,  he  cried  out  in  astonishment. 

For  he  looked  upon  a  prospect  as  won 
derful  as  his  eyes  had  ever  beheld.  The 
land  fell  away  to  a  great  plain,  in  the 
midst  of  which  rose  a  forest,  a  paradise 
of  green,  dark  and  glistening  in  the  sun, 
for  the  rain  had  recently  washed  all  things 
clean.  The  forest  rolled  away  to  the 
north;  leagues  long  was  it,  and  leagues 
broad,  as  mighty  abode  of  beasts  of  the 
chase  as  ever  stood  upon  the  earth.  And 
it  looked  cool  and  inviting,  as  if  in  its 
depths  one  could  find  but  peace  and 
pleasant  thoughts,  so  that  Marrok  mar 
veled  at  the  beauty  of  it. 

Around  the  forest  were  the  fields,  and 
19 


Sir  Marrok 

they,  in  the  distance,  seemed  to  smile  and 
beckon.  For  men  said  that,  the  length 
of  a  human  life  before,  Bedegraine  had 
been  prosperous,  and  since  then  the  forest 
had  but  made  a  beginning  of  invading  the 
lands.  It  seemed  to  Marrok  as  if  the 
riches  of  Paradise  lay  there  in  the  fields 
more  brightly  green  than  the  forest.  He 
said  to  himself:  "Can  misery  dwell  in 
any  such  place?"  But  he  spurred  his 
horse  down  into  the  plain,  and  he  saw. 

The  green  of  the  fields  was  but  the 
green  of  weeds,  of  thorny  shrubs,  and  of 
wild  vines.  The  creepers  overran  old 
fences  which  had  long  since  fallen  in 
decay.  Little  oak  and  beech  trees  were 
pushing  out  from  the  fringes  of  the  for 
est,  and  where  once  had  been  richness  all 
was  desolate.  And  here  and  there  stood 
the  frames  of  houses  shattered  by  man  or 
gutted  by  fire.  Only  here  and  there 
could  Marrok  see,  hedged  from  the  larger 
fields  by  thickset  lines  of  thorn  and  yew, 
little  inclosures  where  it  would  seem  as  if 
20 


Of  Marrok's  Journey  to  Bedegraine 

men  still  cultivated  the  ground,  for  they 
held  lines  of  young  green  plants,  or 
showed  the  tender  hue  of  the  springing 
wheat.  But  whether  the  men  heard  the 
tramp  of  his  horse  and  therefore  hid,  or 
whether  there  were  no  people  abroad  on 
that  day,  not  one  human  form  did  Marrok 
see  until  he  came  to  a  hamlet. 

He  saw  a  street  once  broad  and  fair, 
now  overgrown  with  weeds.  There,  since 
the  men  no  longer  dared  to  live  alone 
upon  their  farms,  the  peasants  of  this  part 
of  Bedegraine  had  drawn  together  for 
their  defense,  going  to  their  fields  by 
secret  paths,  concealed  like  rabbit-run 
ways  in  the  shrubbery.  And  at  the  ham 
let,  whether  in  the  old  houses  rudely 
repaired,  or  in  huts  made  of  wattles  and 
plastered  with  mud,  they  dwelt  in  the 
slight  security  one  another's  presence 
gave.  Yet  even  there  they  were  like  the 
rabbits,  vanishing  into  their  burrows  at 
any  sound,  as  the  knight  saw  when  he 
reached  their  street.  For  he  glimpsed 
21 


Sir  Marrok 

two  flying  figures,  that  was  all ;  he  heard 
the  slamming  of  doors  and  the  sound  of 
bars  falling  into  their  places ;  and  then  the 
place  was  silent  as  a  village  of  the  dead. 

But  the  knight  knew  that  behind  each 
door  were  beings  with  panting  breaths, 
beating  hearts,  and  eyes  bright  with  fear. 
Never  in  his  life  had  he  met  with  such 
an  experience,  and  his  heart  sank  within 
him. 

"  And  this  is  Bedegraine!  "  he  cried. 


22 


CHAPTER   III 

OF    THE    BEGINNING    OF    MARROK' S     TASK 

Now  Bennet  was  the  robbers'  bane, 
For  well  they  feared  his  trusty  sword ; 

And  Father  John  was  as  true  a  man 
As  ever  labored  for  the  Lord. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

AS  Marrok,  dismayed,  was  sitting  there 
J_rV_  on  his  horse,  he  heard  a  commotion 
at  the  end  of  the  village  street.  Men 
were  shouting,  there  was  crashing  of 
broken  fences  and  loud  battering  at  doors, 
then  the  screams  of  women  came.  And 
Marrok  thought  that  the  shouts  of  the 
men  were  like  cruel  laughter,  but  the  cry 
of  the  women  was  despair.  He  looked 
and  saw  that  at  the  village-end  were 
women  cowering,  and  children  running, 
and  men  of  the  village,  driven  from  their 
houses  by  flames,  fighting  silently  with 
clubs  and  staves  against  others  who 
23 


Sir  Marrok 

laughed  against  them.  For  the  men  of 
the  village  were  but  in  their  smocks,  but 
the  others  wore  leathern  jerkins  and  iron 
caps,  and  bore  swords.  Marrok  saw  that 
it  was  a  surprise,  for  the  armed  men  were 
the  robbers,  who  even  in  broad  day,  in 
sheer  wantonness,  were  destroying  the 
homes-  and  taking  the  lives  of  the 
peasants. 

Then  Marrok  remembered  again  the 
word  of  shrewd  King  Pellinore,  who  had 
said,  "  Strike  first!  "  He  closed  the  vizor 
of  his  helmet,  and  leveled  his  lance,  and 
rode  swiftly  against  the  robbers,  not  even 
raising  his  war-cry.  The  noise  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  was  muffled  in  the  weeds  of 
the  street;  the  robbers  heard  him  not  until 
he  was  upon  them  and  had  thrust  their 
leader  through  the  body.  Then,  while  for 
one  moment  they  stood  amazed,  he  cast 
down  his  lance,  drew  his  sword,  and 
raised  his  terrible  war-cry.  With  the  first 
stroke  the  broad  blade  bit  through  a  steel 
cap,  and  brained  a  man. 
24 


Of  the  Beginning  of  Marrok's  Task 

The  knight  was  cool,  the  horse  was 
trained,  and  the  chances  were  even,  though 
in  numbers  they  were  twenty  to  one.  A 
third  man  fell  lifeless,  and  the  horse,  rear 
ing,  trampled  another  to  the  ground. 
Three  robbers,  gaining  their  wits,  rushed 
upon  the  knight  from  front  and  side,  but 
with  the  speed  of  light  he  cut  them  down. 

And  there  for  five  more  minutes  swirled 
the  eddies  of  a  little  fight  no  fiercer,  it 
may  be,  than  many  a  border- struggle,  yet 
more  important  in  its  results  than  a  battle 
of  armies.  For  while  the  knight  fought, 
the  peasants  looked  on,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  years  saw  a  rescuer.  Watching 
him,  they  gained  heart.  Weak  and  down 
trodden  as  they  were,  they  yet  were 
men;  they  could  not  idly  watch  one 
fight  for  them;  and  encouraging  one  an 
other  by  word  and  action,  they  came 
again  to  the  fight,  and  fell  upon  the  rob 
bers'  rear.  At  the  first  hoarse  cry  of 
their  new  assailants  the  outlaws  lost  heart 
and  turned  to  flee. 

25 


Sir  Marrok 

Then  the  peasants,  perforce,  again 
watched  the  fighting,  for  they  had  no 
strength  to  chase  their  oppressors.  But 
the  knight,  on  his  horse,  followed  on  the 
robbers'  rear,  and  one  by  one  cut  them 
down.  And  though  he  had  no  knightly 
antagonists  against  him,  but  was  even 
slaying  churls  in  flight,  which  was  against 
the  practice  of  knighthood,  Marrok  knew 
that  this  fight  was  better,  nay,  even  holier, 
than  the  combats  of  knights-errant  fight 
ing  for  trifling  causes.  And  the  peasants 
blessed  him  as  they  watched,  and  cried 
encouragement  until  the  last  outlaw,  even 
as  he  reached  the  shelter  of  the  forest, 
fell  to  the  knight's  sword. 

But  what  was  their  delight  when,  call 
ing  the  whole  village  from  their  houses 
to  his  welcome,  they  asked  his  name  and 
were  answered:  "I  am  the  Lord  of  Bede- 
graine,  sent  by  Uther  the  king  to  purge 
this  land  " !  And  what  was  their  wonder 
when  they  learned  that  he  would  live 
among  them  there,  to  rule,  foster,  and 
26 


Of  the  Beginning  of  Marrok9 s  Task 

protect  them!  They  kissed  his  hands, 
promising  to  serve  -him  with  all  the 
strength  of  their  bodies  and  all  the  cour 
age  of  their  hearts.  They  quenched  the  fire 
of  the  burning  houses  and  brought  in  the 
fleeing  cattle ;  with  shouts  they  gathered 
the  bodies  of  the  robbers  for  burial  in  a 
pit;  and  on  the  side  of  the  village  toward 
the  forest  they  erected  poles,  and  on 
them  hung  —  as  the  farmer  hangs  the 
bodies  of  hawks  —  the  cleft  head-pieces 
and  battered  shields  of  the  outlaws,  grim 
warnings  to  their  fellows.  And  joyfully 
the  men  arrayed  themselves  in  the  armor 
of  the  robbers,  the  leather  or  quilted  jack 
ets,  and  girt  themselves  with  the  swords. 
But  while  Marrok  was  observing  that 
these,  now  his  people,  had  the  hearts  of 
men,  that  they  had  courage,  willingness, 
and  above  all  gratitude,  there  came  a  cry 
from  a  little  distance,  and  Marrok  per 
ceived,  halted  on  a  panting  horse  and 
watching  them,  a  man  in  an  esquire's  arms, 
who  looked  upon  the  bodies  not  yet  bur- 
27 


Sfr  Marrok 

led,  the  smoking  houses,  and  the  bloody 
ground,  with  a  face  of  despair.  Then  the 
man  set  spurs  to  his  steed,  brandished  the 
javelin  that  he  carried,  and  rode  at  the 
group  of  peasants  who  wrere  armed.  But 
they,  scattering  at  his  approach,  cried: 
"  Hold,  Bennet,  hold!" 

He  reined  up  again,  even  almost  among 
them,  and  looking  from  one  to  the  other 
said:  "Jenkin!  Wat!  Kichard!  How 
is  this?  I  took  ye  for  the  robbers.  How 
are  ye  all  alive,  and  is  my  daughter 
safe?" 

They  led  his  daughter  forth  from  the 
crowd  and  showed  that  she  was  safe; 
they  told  him  of  the  assault  and  the  res 
cue  ;  they  brought  him  to  the  knight,  and 
the  two  stood  face  to  face. 

Marrok  saw  a  man  of  middle  age,  brown 
with  the  weather  and  marked  with  scars, 
sturdy  of  frame,  honest  of  face.  And 
Bennet  saw  a  young  leader  of  men,  into 
whose  keeping,  for  all  deeds  of  good,  one 
might  give  his  life. 

28 


Of  the  Beginning  of  Mar  r  ok' s  Task 

"  "Now  God  be  praised!"  the  squire 
cried.  "  For  as  I  was  with  Sir  Simon 
there  came  to  me  news  that  the  robbers 
were  here,  burning1  and  slaying.  Then  I 
blamed  myself  that  I  had  ever  lived  away 
from  my  daughter,  and  came  hither  in 
hot  haste,  to  save  her  or  die.  And  now, 
Sir  Knight,  sith  ye  say  ye  are  come  here 
to  live  among  us  and  to  cleanse  this  land, 
offer  I  myself  to  you  as  your  esquire  of 
the  body,  to  keep  your  horse  and  arms 
and  to  guard  your  back  in  fight.  True 
servant  will  I  be  of  yours  until  I  die." 

And  Marrok  thanked  him  and  accepted 
his  service  gladly. 

Yet  even  then  were  the  events  of  the 
day  not  done ;  nay,  far  from  done.  Into 
the  village  from  the  other  end  strode  a 
man  never  yet  seen  in  those  parts,  a  man 
in  a  friar's  habit,  with  shaven  crown,  yet 
well-made  and  strong,  and  of  a  manly 
face.  Before  they  knew  of  his  coming 
he  drew  near  and  rebuked  them. 

"  O  man,"  he  said  to  Marrok,  "  stand- 
29 


Sir  Marrok 

ing  there  in  thy  armor,  a  figure  of  pride ; 
and  you  others  in  warlike  garments, 
workers  of  evil:  leave,  all  of  you,  this 
oppressed  village,  and  come  not  hither 
again ! " 

Then  Marrok  saw  that  the  priest  mis 
took  even  as  Bennet  had  done,  and  he 
spoke  to  test  him: 

'4Lo  you  now,  Shaven-Crown,  darest 
thou  here  among  us?" 

"Yea,"  said  the  friar,  "I  dare,  and  I  re 
buke  thee.  Man  of  blood, yield  this  place ! " 

"Nay,"  answered  Marrok;  "knowest 
thou  not  it  were  easy  to  slay  thee?  What 
madness  brought  thee  here?" 

"I  am  in  God's  hands,"  answered  the 
friar.  "Hither  am  I  come  for  his  pur 
poses  to  this  land,  which,  being  oppressed, 
needeth  a  priest  of  God." 

"What  is  thy  name,  friar?"  asked 
Marrok. 

"  My  name  is  Father  John." 

Then  Marrok  kneeled  in  the  dust  before 
the  friar,  and  he  said:  "Bless,  O  man  of 
30 


Of  the  Beginning  of  Mar r ok* &  Task 

God,  the  work  of  my  hands  which  has 
this  day  begun,  and  stay  here  with  me,  to 
help  in  the  uplifting  of  this  my  people." 

And  the  priest,  when  all  was  explained 
to  him,  blessed  Marrok,  and  Bennet,  and 
all  the  peasants,  and  the  work  of  which  so 
brave  a  beginning  had  been  made.  There 
was  much  rejoicing  in  that  place.  And 
there  began  that  fellowship  of  Marrok 
with  Bennet  and  Father  John  which  was 
so  much  to  the  good  of  that  people. 


31 


CHAPTER   IV 

HOW    THE    LAND    OF    BEDEGRAINE    WAS 
CLEANSED 

Then  for  the  wicked  was  no  zest, 

For  Marrok  left  no  place  of  rest 

For  warlock,  witch,  or  pagan  pest, 

And  burned  to  the  ground  each  robber-nest. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

NOW  all  that  we  have  told  was  but  the 
beginning  of  Marrok' s  task,  and  to 
tell  all  were  too  tedious.  But  on  that  very 
day  Marrok  gathered  all  the  peasants, 
and  divided  among  them  what  arms  were 
to  be  found,  while  even  the  friar  girt  him 
self  with  a  sword.  Then  they  went  to 
the  grange  of  Sir  Simon.  Of  the  meet 
ing  of  Sir  Marrok  with  Sir  Simon  it  is  not 
necessary  to  write,  though  the  joy  of  the 
old  knight  was  great.  Of  the  meeting  of 
Marrok  with  the  daughters  of  Sir  Simon, 
that  is  more  to  the  purpose  of  this  story, 
32 


The  Land  ofBedegraine  /-<?  demised 

since  from  that  moment  the  elder  daughter 
became  to  Marrok  as  a  guiding"  star.  Yet 
there  is  space  but  for  mention  of  this. 
Marrok  led  his  men  and  those  of  Sir 
Simon  into  the  forest,  'and  they  struck 
upon  a  robber-stronghold.  From  that 
surprise,  from  the  knights  who,  with  the 
better  armed  of  their  followers,  forced 
their  way  in,  and  from  the  ring  of  venge 
ful  peasants  who  waited  without,  but  few 
of  the  robbers  escaped  to  carry,  to  the 
other  robber-bands,  the  news  that  there 
had  come  to  Bedegraine  one  whose 
thought  was  quick  and  whose  hand  was 
sure. 

Thus  did  Marrok  strike  first  upon  the 
outlaws,  frightening  them  so  that  they 
dared  not  attack  him.  Then  for  a  space 
he  abode  in  peace  with  his  peasants,  and 
advised  them  in  all  that  they  did.  And  he 
rebuilt  houses,  and  saw  to  the  strength 
ening  of  fences;  also  he  enlarged  barns, 
which  was  necessary,  for  the  harvest  was 
greater  than  in  many  years.  And  the 
3  33 


Sir  Marrok 

men  of  Bedegraine  built  him  a  house,  a 
wooden  grange,  between  them  and  the  for 
est,  where  he  could  guard  them.  Then  when 
his  men  were  stronger  and  better  fed  he 
gathered  them  and  the  men  of  Sir  Simon, 
and  destroyed  a  second  robber-haunt. 

And  so  from  season  to  season  he  in 
creased  his  work.  Fewer  grew  the  rob 
bers  in  the  forest,  and  stronger  and  hap 
pier  became  the  people  of  Bedegraine. 
Father  John,  who  was  a  good  leech, 
tended  them  in  their  illnesses  and  healed 
their  spiritual  troubles ;  he  was  to  them  a 
comforter  and  consoler,  while  Bennet  was 
a  friend,  and  Marrok  was  a  strong  sup 
port.  And  the  fields  grew  broader,  and 
men  began  to  go  again  to  the  outlying 
farms  and  live  alone.  Moreover,  men 
from  beyond  Bedegraine  came  to  Marrok, 
hearing  that  he  promised  farms  to  those 
who  were  good  vassals;  they  stayed  to 
fight  for  him,  in  three  years  to  have  a 
holding  of  land.  And  the  robbers  in  the 
forest  grew  afraid,  nor  ventured  they  any 
34 


The  Land  of  Bedegraine  is  Cleansed 

more  beyond  the  wood;  and  some  even 
slipped  away  in  fear, Jest  they  should  fall 
to  Marrok' s  sword,  or  be  hung  from  their 
own  roof -tree.  And  before  the  third 
harvest  came  Marrok  knew  that  the  worst 
part  of  the  work  was  over. 

But  Father  John  came  one  day  and 
stood  before  him,  saying :  "  For  a  long 
time  have  I  been  patient." 

"What,"  asked  Marrok,  in  astonish 
ment,  "is  there  anything  I  have  failed 
todoforthee?" 

Father  John  replied:  "There  yet  are 
Druids  in  the  wood." 

Before  the  week  was  gone  were  the 
great  stones  of  the  Druids'  Ring  over 
thrown,  and  the  altar  cast  down  and 
broken.  The  Druids  took  the  warning, 
and  fled.  And  Marrok,  not  knowing 
whom  the  Ring  was  yet  to  shelter,  said: 
"Desolate  shall  this  place  be  henceforth." 
Desolate  it  was,  though  he  himself  one 
day  dwelt  there,  a  fugitive.  But  no 
Druid  lived  in  the  land  again. 
35 


Si?1  Marrok 

And  the  day  came  when,  in  all  his  land, 
Marrok  knew  there  was  no  robber  left. 
With  the  Druids  the  witches  and  the 
warlocks  also  fled  away.  Then  through 
out  Bedegraine  were  to  be  seen  here  and 
there  the  empty  dwellings  of  witches,  and 
the  charred  logs  of  the  houses  of  the  rob 
bers.  But  at  the  forest's  edge  the  hamlet 
of  Bedegraine  grew  into  a  flourishing  vil 
lage,  and  new  hamlets  rose  here  and  there. 
And  the  fields  were  made  ever  wider,  and 
the  forest  was  once  more  restricted  to  its 
ancient  boundaries. 

Then  Marrok  took  to  hunting,  and  the 
beasts  of  prey  were  his  quarry.  He  laid 
aside  his  armor,  and  took  a  lighter  and  a 
speedier  steed.  He  sent  for  dogs,  great 
hounds  that  feared  neither  the  wolf  nor 
the  boar.  And  the  knight  hunted  merrily 
in  the  forest,  coming  back  at  night  with 
the  skins  of  wolves  or  with  the  bodies  of 
the  fat  wild  swine,  on  which  the  peasants, 
in  their  turn,  grew  stout  and  hardy.  And 
by  degrees  Marrok  swept  a  wider  circle 
36 


The  Land  of  Bedegraine  is  Cleansed 

through  the  wood,  until  the  boars  were 
gone.  Beneath  the^  branches  of  beech 
and  oak  no  wrolf  lurked,  but  far  to  the 
north  the  harried  packs  fled  at  Marrok's 
coming. 

All  this  was  not  a  task  swiftly  done 
nor  easily  accomplished.  Much  patience 
was  necessary,  with  long  waiting;  much 
planning  was  needed  before  the  end  was 
reached.  And  seven  years  passed  away 
before  Marrok,  looking  about  upon  all 
that  he  had  done,  could  feel  satisfied. 
Then,  as  his  duty  was,  since  he  had  not 
looked  upon  the  face  of  his  king  in  all 
that  while,  he  gathered  a  retinue  and 
journeyed  to  London. 


37 


CHAPTER  Y 

OF    THE    HONOR  WHICH  WAS    GIVEN   M AR 
BOR    AT    THE    COURT    OF    THE    KING, 
AND    OF   DIVERS    OTHER   MATTERS 

Now  Irma  was  a  lady  wise, 

And  Irma  was  a  lady  fair, 
And  unto  Bedegraine  she  came, 

To  live  within  the  forest  there. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

MOST  joyously  did  Uther  receive 
Marrok,  and  he  gave  him  great 
honor.  He  commanded  that  the  knight 
should  be  given  new  robes  of  silk,  and  he 
sent  rich  presents  to  Marrok' s  lodging.  In 
the  audience-hall  he  spoke  with  the  knight, 
and  those  of  the  company  of  the  Table 
Round  heard  what  was  said  in  Marrok' s 
praise.  For  the  king  prized  him  only 
lower  than  Pellinore.  Then  at  the  end  the 
king  said:  "  Tell  me,  Sir  Marrok,  is  there 
naught  that  I  can  do  to  serve  thy  people?  " 
38 


Honor  is  Given  to  Marroh  at  the  Court 

"  My  lord,"  said  Marrok,  "  this  I  beg 
of  you,  to  send  to  Bedegraine  a  company 
of  monks.  For  my  land  is  wide,  and  my 
people  are  becoming  many,  and  there  is 
but  one  friar  to  serve  their  souls'  needs. 
Therefore  send  me  monks,  O  king,  who 
are  holy  men  and  good  leeches,  that  they 
may  administer  to  the  people  in  body  as 
well  as  in  spirit.  And  I  will  build  them  an 
abbey,  and  they  shall  live  well,  and  do  us 
good." 

"  Truly,"  said  the  king,  "  that  pleaseth 
me." 

"  And  I  pray  you,"  said  Marrok,  "  to 
give  me  credit  with  the  merchants  of 
London,  for  I  must  buy  many  things,  such 
as  my  people  need  but  cannot  make." 

"  Truly,"  answered  the  king,  "  that  also 
shall  be  done." 

Then  said  Marrok:  "And  pray,  King 
Uther,  apprise  the  merchants  of  London, 
that  the  way  is  again  open  to  the  north  — 
the  old  Roman  road  that  leadeth  through 
Bedegraine  to  Scotland.  And  I  will  give 
39 


Sir  Marrok 

safe  conduct  to  all  who  would  pass 
through  the  forest,  that  no  robber  shall 
molest  them." 

" Mow,"  cried  the  king,  " this  pleaseth 
me  best  of  all,  that  my  kingdom  is  re 
lieved  of  a  disgrace.  And  this,  Marrok, 
give  I  thee  for  a  device:  a  lion  couchant, 
as  one  guarding  a  pass,  to  bear  upon  thy 
shield  and  carve  within  thy  castle.  For 
surely  thou  buildest  thyself  a  strong 
hold?" 

4  Yea,"  answered  Marrok,  "  and  here 
in  London  I  seek  stone-masons  and  good 
artisans  to  build  the  abbey,  and  to  make  a 
castle  for  me  and  my  wife." 

cThou  art  married,  man?"  asked  the 
king. 

''Five  years  since,"  answered  Marrok, 
"  I  married  the  daughter  of  Sir  Simon." 
And  that  was  the  elder  daughter,  for  the 
younger  was  still  but  a  child. 

Before   Marrok   left   London    all   was 

done  which  he  had  asked  of  the  king.     A 

company  of  monks  were  chosen  from  the 

southern  monasteries  and  bidden  to  fol- 

40 


Honor  is  Given  to  Marrok  at  the  Court 

low  Marrok  to  the  north.  The  merchants 
gave  him  credit,  and  they  planned  new 
ventures,  sending  their  goods  to  the  north 
through  the  Forest  of  Bedegraine.  The 
knight  found  good  workmen,  workers  of 
wood  and  stone,  who  would  go  with  him 
to  build  his  castle.  And  ever  was  he 
treated  with  much  honor,  both  by  kings 
and  knights,  until  at  last  he  was  about  to 
journey  home. 

On  that  day  Merlin  came  to  the  knight 
—  Merlin  the  magician,  whose  w^orks  were 
all  for  the  good  of  Uther  and  the  kingdom 
of  Britain.  Merlin  had  strange  eyes, 
which  sometimes  seemed  so  keen  that  they 
could  read  the  very  thoughts  of  men, 
yet  sometimes  appeared  sightless,  or  as 
if  they  looked  beyond  human  things. 
And  this  time  they  were  thus,  rapt  in  a 
vision. 

"Marrok,"  said  Merlin,  "thy  task  is 
done.  Yet  it  must  be  done  again." 

"  Once  before,"  answered  Marrok, "  thou 
spakest  of  two  tasks.  Declare  thy  mean- 


ing." 


41 


Sir  Marrok 

"  Beware,"  said  Merlin,  not  heeding, "  of 
whom  thou  trustest." 

"  What  mean  you?  "  cried  the  knight. 

But  still  Merlin  appeared  not  to  hear. 
"  Thou  buildest  a  castle,  yet  it  will  not 
keep  the  enemy  out.  Marrok,  listen  to  me 
well !  "  And  by  the  strange  look  in  Mer 
lin's  eyes  the  knight  was  awed. 

"  I  listen,"  he  responded. 

"  Build  thou,"  said  Merlin,  "  a  passage 
from  thy  castle  to  the  wood.  Let  the 
passage  be  underground;  let  few  know  of 
it  save  thyself,  and  let  its  end  be  concealed 
in  a  thicket." 

"So,"  cried  Marrok,  "I  shall  be  besieged 
in  my  castle,  and  thus  shall  I  be  free?  " 

"  Nay,"  answered  Merlin ;  "  thus  shalt 
thou  enter,  and  free  thyself  so." 

Then  he  nodded  as  if  rousing  from 
sleep,  and  his  eyes  cleared,  and  he  turned 
to  go. 

"Merlin,"  cried  Marrok,  staying  him, 
"  what  is  this  that  will  come  to  me?  " 

But  Merlin  shook  his  head.  "  I  can- 
42 


Honor  is  Given  to  Marrok  at  the  Court 

not  read  the  future,  but  it  is  given  me  to 
say  these  things.  Heed  them  if  thou  art 
wise."  And  he  left  Marrok  and  went 
away. 

Then  Marrok  returned  to  Bedegraine, 
rich  with  presents  from  the  king.  And 
his  workmen  built  him  a  castle  large  and 
strong,  with  a  passage  such  as  Merlin  had 
directed,  leading  from  an  inner  chamber 
of  the  keep  to  a  thicket  in  the  forest, 
where  junipers  grew  dwarfed  and  close. 
When  the  monks  came  was  their  abbey 
built,  three  miles  away,  and  they  lived 
within  it  and  did  good. 

And  merchants  came  with  their  pack- 
trains,  and  traffic  once  more  flowed  along 
the  leafy  arteries  of  the  forest.  Traders 
came  to  the  villages  to  barter  with  the 
peasants,  and  knights  came  to  build  castles 
for  them sel yes,  each  like  an  outpost  of 
Marrok' s  own.  Two  knights  there  were; 
one  was  Moris  de  la  Roche;  as  we  would 
call  him  to-day,  his  name  was  Moris  of 
the  Rock.  He  built  his  castle  to  the  east 
43 


Sir  Marrok 

of  the  forest,  beyond  the  abbey,  and 
guarded  all  that  region.  And  to  the 
west  of  the  forest,  beyond  the  grange  of 
Sir  Simon,  built  the  second  knight,  Sir 
Brian,  a  strong  man  and  a  good  fighter, 
but  hasty  and  rough. 

But  Marrok  lived  in  his  own  castle,  and 
his  wife  bore  him  a  son,  and  she  died. 
Her  loss  was  his  one  grief,  but  his  son,  as 
he  grew  from  infancy  to  childhood,  was  a 
solace.  And  his  people  grew  dearer  to 
him.  He  became  to  them  ever  more  of  a 
father.  He  took  them  closer  to  his  heart; 
their  cares  were  on  his  mind,  and  he  di 
rected  their  affairs  with  such  wisdom  as 
they  needed.  All  was  in  order  within 
Bedegraine,  and  the  land  that  was  once  a 
desert  became  an  Eden.  People  flocked 
there  to  live  on  the  fertile  lands,  and  the 
broad  fields  were  delightful  to  see.  And 
Father  John,  and  also  the  monks  of  the 
abbey,  labored  among  the  people  to  cure 
their  ills  of  body  as  well  as  to  instruct 
their  hearts.  Such  peace  and  comfort 
44 


Honor  is  Given  to  Marrok  at  the  Court 

were  not  known  elsewhere  in  England; 
in  those  dark  days  of  ..the  early  world,  at 
least  one  corner  held  light. 

A  third  neighbor  came  to  Marrok,  with 
whom  this  story  has  much  to  do.  One 
day,  hunting  in  the  forest,  he  came  to  the 
old  grange  which,  in  a  little  clearing,  for 
many  years  had  stood  unoccupied.  Its 
ditch  was  filling  up,  its  palisades  were 
falling,  and  in  places  its  roof  was  sagging. 
Evil  legends  were  told  of  the  place,  so 
that  the  peasants  feared  it.  Owls  and 
bats  had  long  made  it  their  home.  But 
Marrok  saw  that  the  windows  now  were 
stopped  with  oiled  linen,  and  that  smoke 
rose  from  the  chimney.  The  place  was 
inhabited.  He  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree, 
crossed  the  old  bridge  of  the  ditch,  and 
struck  upon  the  door. 

It  was  strange  to  see  servants  come, 
who,  silent  and  respectful,  led  him  into 
the  house.  They  brought  him  to  a  room 
hung  with  strange  tapestries,  the  like  of 
which  were  not  in  all  the  north  of  Eng- 
45 


Sir  Marrok 

land,  and  they  said  that  the  lady  would 
presently  come. 

"The  lady!"  thought  Sir  Marrok. 
"Lives  a  woman  here  alone?" 

She  came  —  a  woman  tall  and  dark,  rus 
tling  with  silks  and  rich  with  laces.  Her 
dress  was  strange  and  fine,  as  was  her 
beauty.  She  bowed  before  Marrok  and 
called  him  by  name. 

"How  knowst  thou  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  Thou  art  my  lord,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
thy  vassal.  I  know  thee  by  report.  And 
I  ask  thy  pardon  that  before  now  I  have 
not  made  my  visit  to  beg  of  thee  this 
holding  in  the  forest." 

"  Nay,"  he  said ;  "  to  live  here  all  alone 
in  the  dark  wood?  There  are  good  acres 
in  the  open  lands  which  as  yet  have  no 
possessor." 

But  she  answered:  "Dearer  is  the  for 
est  to  me  than  the  open  lands.     Here  can 
I  live  in  happiness,  under  the  shelter  of 
thy  name,  if  but  my  lord  permit." 
46 


Honor  is  Given  to  Marrok  at  the  Court 

She  smiled  upon  him  and  pleased  him. 
He  said:  "  Tell  me  thy  name." 

"  I  am,"  she  said,  "  the  Lady  Irma." 

'  Then,"  he  answered,  "  live  thou  here 
in  my  lands,  so  long  as  shall  please  thee, 
without  tithe  or  payment;  and  if  in  any 
way  I  can  help  thee,  send  and  ask  for  aid." 

Thus  did  the  Lady  Irma  come  to  live  in 
the  forest,  and  she  was  seen  by  few.  For 
the  peasants  still  said  that  the  old  grange 
was  evil,  and  avoided  it.  But  she  sent 
frequently  to  Marrok,  asking  at  one  time 
advice  and  at  another  assistance,  and  in 
all  ways  in  his  power  he  helped  her.  He 
came  to  know  her  as  a  learned  woman, 
familiar  with  books  and  the  uses  of  herbs; 
and  he  learned  to  love  her  little  daughter, 
who  was  two  years  younger  than  his 
own  son. 

And  time  passed  by  with  Marrok,  while 

he  became  ever  more  the  father  of  his 

people.     A  kind  ruler  was  he.     Mornings 

in  the  castle  hall  he  judged  causes,  lis- 

47 


£/>  Marrok 

tened  to  the  reports  of  his  underlings, 
and  directed  what  should  be  done.  After 
noons  he  rode  out,  looked  at  the  farms 
and  the  buildings,  saw  that  everything 
was  in  order,  planned  changes,  remedied 
defects;  or  he  rode  far  through  the 
wood,  hunting  the  deer.  And  in  the 
evening,  by  the  great  fireplace  in  the  hall, 
he  listened  to  the  songs  of  minstrels,  or 
heard  the  tales  of  travelers,  to  shelter 
whom  was  his  delight.  So  the  time 
slipped  by  until  Marrok' s  son  was  seven 
years  old.  In  that  year  King  Uther  died, 
which  was  the  beginning  of  Marrok's 
troubles. 


48 


CHAPTER  VI 

HOW     MAKROK    WAS     SUMMONED     BY    AN 
HERALD 

Now  in  that  season  there  befell 
Worse  war  than  Britain  yet  had  known, 

And  Arthur  needs  must  keep  him  well 
Ere  he  could  win  unto  his  own. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

OF  the  coming  of  Arthur  many  songs 
and  legends  tell,  wherefore  little 
need  be  written  in  this  book.  Only  that 
Uther  died,  after  long  sickness  during 
which  his  enemies  waxed  strong  against 
him;  and  Arthur,  who  till  that  time  was 
unknown,  came  before  the  realm  of  Brit 
ain  by  a  great  marvel  —  the  sword  in  the 
stone,  which  none  could  draw  forth  but 
he.  Many  of  the  knights  and  kinglets 
of  Britain  knew  him  by  that  token,  and 
by  Merlin's  declaration,  and  made  him 
their  king.  But  others  of  the  northern 
4  49 


Sir  Marrok 

lands,  and  of  the  islands  of  the  sea,  and 
of  Cornwall,  and  of  Ireland,  would  not 
accept  him,  and  refused  his  gifts,  threat 
ening  him  with  gifts  of  hard  swords  be 
tween  the  neck  and  shoulders.  They 
besieged  him  at  Carlion,  but  he  drove 
them  away.  Then  both  they  and  he  sent 
forth  to  gather  armies. 

One  morning  Marrok  sat  in  the  great 
hall  and  judged  the  causes  of  his  people. 
Small  quarrels  and  great  were  brought 
before  him;  he  settled  them  all.  Before 
his  keen  eye  and  quiet  smile  truth  w^as 
laid  bare.  When  he  spoke  all  listened, 
all  agreed.  His  word  was  law  because 
it  was  right.  His  calm  face,  his  hair  just 
turning  gray,  his  great,  strong  frame,  and 
his  sinewy  hand,  seemed  to  his  people  the 
very  tokens  of  his  justice. 

There  sounded  a  bugle  at  the  gate. 
The  porter  announced  a  herald.  The 
travel-stained  man  stood  before  the  dais, 
bearing  on  his  tabard  the  insignium  of 
the  king,  the  fabled  beast  Pendragon. 
50 


Marrok  is  Summoned  by  an  Herald 

Marrok   commanded  to  bring  meat  and 
drink. 

'  "Nay,"  said  the  herald.  "To  Sir 
Marrok,  knight  of  the  Table  Bound, 
bring  I  a  message.  Then  must  I  forward 
on  my  journey." 

"  Say  on." 

The  herald  drew  himself  up.  "  Arthur 
Pendragon  —  " 

"Arthur?"  cried  Marrok.  "Not 
Uther?" 

"Arthur  Pendragon,  King  of  England, 
to  Marrok,  knight,  sends  greeting.  Son 
am  I  to  Uther,  lately  dead.  Since  lords 
and  knights  in  evil  council  do  deny  my 
kingship  and  combine  against  my  king 
dom,  now  I,  Arthur,  do  command  thee, 
Marrok,  straightway  to  London.  Take 
arms  and  arm  thy  men;  set  thy  affairs  in 
order ;  leave  in  thy  lands  some  sure  stew 
ard;  bring  with  thee  those  two  knights 
who  are  thy  vassals;  and  come  thy 
self,  with  all  force  and  speed,  to  join  my 
army." 

51 


Marrok 

There  was  silence  in  the  hall.  The 
herald  stood  waiting. 

"Of  Arthur,"  said  Marrok  at  last, 
"  heard  I  never." 

"  Merlin  the  magician,"  said  the  herald, 
"  also  sends  thee  greeting.  By  the  great 
Pendragon,  by  thy  knighthood,  by  thy 
vow  as  member  of  the  Table  Round,  he 
bids  thee  come.  By  every  sacred  sign 
doth  he  swear:  Arthur  is  son  of  Uther, 
by  his  wife  Igraine,  long  kept  in  secret, 
bred  under  Merlin's  eye.  And  if  thou 
comest  not  —  " 

"  Peace !  "  said  Marrok.  "  Against 
Arthur  who  are  arrayed?" 

"  King  Lot  of  Orkney,  the  King  of  the 
Hundred  Knights,  King  Carados,  King 
Nentres  of  Garloth,  and  seven  other 
kings." 

"And  with  Arthur?" 

"  King  Bors  of  Gaul  and  King  Ban  of 
Benwick." 

"  I  will  come." 

One  stood  ready  with  a  salver  and  a 


SIR  MARROK   RECEIVES  THE   HERALD   OF  THE  KING. 


Marrok  is  Summoned  by  an  Herald 

goblet  of  wine.  The  herald  took  the  ves 
sel.  "To  the  king,,  and  to  thee,  Marrok, 
I  drink."  He  set  the  empty  goblet  down, 
turned,  and  was  gone. 

Dead  silence  reigned  in  the  crowded 
hall.  Suitors  and  henchmen  stood  wait 
ing.  Marrok,  his  head  sunk  upon  his 
breast,  his  hands  gripping  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  sat  long.  But  then  he  groaned 
aloud. 

His  people  answered  with  a  sudden 
cry.  Some  kneeled,  all  began  to  pray 
him :  "  Sir  Marrok,  go  not !  Stay  with  us ! 
Let  war  go  on.  Stay  thou  here !  Defend 
us,  thyself,  thy  son,  and  leave  us  not !  " 

Marrok  rose  and  raised  his  hand. 
There  was  silence.  They  gazed  with 
wonder  and  fear  upon  his  face,  where  pain 
sat  visible. 

"  It  has  come,"  he  said.  "  War  has 
come.  Our  peaceful  fields,  our  happy 
homes,  will  be  swept  upon,  trampled  down, 
destroyed.  But  I  must  go  —  else  were  I 
no  true  knight.  Go  now.  Go  all.  Let 
55 


Sit*  Marrok 

every  man  set  his  house  in  order.  On 
the  third  day  each  who  can  bear  arms, 
bringing  sword  or  shield,  bow  or  spear,  on 
horse  or  foot,  shall  come  here  to  the  castle, 
ready  to  go  or  stay  as  I  direct." 

They  left  the  hall  with  sobs  and  tears, 
hastening  to  their  homes,  and  Marrok 
gave  order  that  the  news  be  sent  to  the  dis 
tant  knights,  his  vassals,  and  to  Sir  Simon. 
And  much  he  wished  that  one  at  least  of 
those  two  knights  might  stay  behind,  for 
there  would  be  great  need  of  him.  But 
the  order  would  not  permit  it.  Then 
at  noon  Marrok  gave  order  that  his  horse 
be  saddled,  and  he  rode  to  the  grange  of 
Sir  Simon.  There  all  was  in  confusion. 

"  Marrok,"  said  the  old  knight,  "  thou 
goest  to  the  war,  and  Brian  and  Moris 
also?" 

"Ay." 

Sir  Simon  looked  sadly  upon  his  fields. 

"  Then,"   he   said,  "  my  best  bulwark  is 

gone.     Too  old  am  I  to  fight,  my  son  is 

but  a  lad,  and  my  peasants  need  protec- 

56 


Marrok  is  Summoned  by  an  Herald 

tion.  I  must  gather  wheat  into  my 
garners  and  strengthen  my  house;  and 
vigilant  must  I  be  day  and  night  until 
you  return." 

Now  Marrok  had  come  there  with  the 
hope  that  Sir  Simon  could  help  him,  but 
he  saw  plainly  that  the  old  man  had  too 
much  to  do  of  his  own  part,  since  he  him 
self  might  be  in  danger.  For  in  those 
days  the  chances  of  war  were  terrible, 
and  each  lord  who  loved  his  peasants  felt 
it  a  duty  to  live  among  them  to  protect 
them;  so  that  Sir  Simon  must  live  at  the 
grange  and  shelter  the  peasants  should 
an  enemy  come.  And  Marrok  said :  "  Ye 
should  have  built  your  house  afresh,  of 
stone,  as  I  advised." 

"  Yea,"  answered  Sir  Simon,  with  a  sigh. 
"  And  now  is  too  late, for  the  stone-masons 
have  returned  to  London,  and  in  war-time 
none  will  risk  the  journey  hither." 

Then  Marrok  took  his  leave  of  Sir 
Simon,  and  rode  to  the  castle  of  Sir  Brian, 
which  was  full  five  miles  beyond,  standing 
57 


Sir  Marrok 

near  the  forest.  And  Sir  Brian,  like  Sir 
Simon,  was  putting  his  lands  in  order. 

"  And  who,"  asked  Sir  Marrok,  "  is  to 
stay  here  in  your  place?" 

"  My  son  Morcar,"  answered  Brian. 

Then  Marrok  looked  upon  Morcar,  who 
was  but  eighteen,  and  was  like  his  father, 
rough  and  hasty;  and  Marrok  saw  that 
there  was  no  hope  that  the  young  man 
might  be  able  to  bear  a  larger  task  than 
ruling  his  father's  peasants.  Moreover, 
he  was  not  of  the  right  cast  of  mind,  so 
that  there  was  no  help  from  him. 

lC  Thou  wilt  be  at  my  castle  on  the  third 
day,"  Marrok  asked  of  Brian,  "  thou  and 
thy  men,  ready  to  ride  with  me?" 

"  Ay,"  answered  Brian. 

"Bring  thy  son  with  thee,"  directed 
Marrok,  "for  I  must  give  my  vassals 
charge  concerning  my  lands  in  my 
absence." 

Then  Marrok  rode  straight  through  the 
forest  at  a  gallop,  a  long  two  hours'  ride, 
and  ever  his  thoughts  were  of  unpleasant 
58 


Marrok  is  Summoned  by  an  Herald 

things,  until  he  came  to  the  other  side, 
and  saw  again  in  the  open  fields  a  castle, 
which  was  the  dwelling  of  Sir  Moris  of 
the  Rock.  Sir  Moris  welcomed  Marrok 
warmly,  as  a  vassal  should,  and  offered 
him  meat  and  drink.  Moreover,  the  two 
loved  each  other,  for  both  were  courteous 
and  kind. 

"  Nay,"  said  Marrok,  "  I  will  make  no 
trouble,  for  I  see  that  you  are  planning 
for  the  war.  On  the  third  day  wilt  thou 
ride  with  me  to  join  the  king?  " 

"  I  will  ride,"  answered  Sir  Moris. 

"And  whom  leave  you  in  your  stead?" 

"My  son  Roger,"  said  Sir  Moris. 

Then  Marrok  looked  upon  that  youth, 
who  was  but  a  stripling  of  seventeen, 
being  a  year  younger  than  Morcar.  And 
on  account  of  his  youth  was  no  hope  that 
he  would  be  able  to  do  more  than  admin 
ister  his  father's  lands,  and  even  that 
work  would  be  great,  though  the  youth 
was  serious  of  mind  and  good  of  heart. 
So  Marrok  rode  again  away  along  the  f  or- 
59 


Sir  Marrok 

est's  edge  toward  home,  until  he  reached 
the  abbey.  There  he  was  admitted  to  the 
Abbot  Anselm,  who  was  not  so  old  as  Sir 
Simon,  yet  was  weaker,  so  that  his  au 
thority  was  no  longer  firm.  And  the 
Prior  Richard,  who  was  second  to  Anselm 
in  the  abbey,  and  one  day  might  be  abbot 
in  his  stead,  stood  in  the  room,  while  to 
them  came  through  the  open  door  the 
clamor  of  the  monks  in  confusion. 

"Anselm,"  said  Marrok,  "is  thy  house 
so  little  under  control  that  the  monks 
are  like  women,  crying  at  the  news  of 
war?" 

"  I  will  go,"  said  the  prior,  "  and  still 
them." 

"  Do  thou  so,"  answered  Marrok,  "for 
I  would  speak  with  the  abbot  alone." 

Prior  Richard  went  out,  and  Marrok 
heard  his  voice  in  the  corridors,  sternly 
rebuking  the  brothers,  who  settled  into 
quiet.  "  That  man  is  firm  of  will,"  thought 
Marrok.  And  when  he  had  shut  the 
door,  and  had  talked  with  the  abbot  upon 
60 


Marrok  is  Summoned  by  an  Herald 

the  affairs  of  the   abbey,  at  parting  he 
said: 

<  "Anselm,  take  heed  to  thy  prior,  lest 
he  usurp  thine  authority." 

"  Nay,"  answered  the  abbot.  "  In  truth 
he  is  as  my  right  hand,  but  mine  is  the 
direction  of  everything." 

"Be  not  so  sure,"  said  Marrok.  But 
he  saw  no  harm  that  could  come  from  the 
prior,  and  he  went  away. 

As  he  rode  home  to  his  castle  Marrok 
looked  upon  his  fields  and  farms.  Far  as 
he  could  see,  even  to  the  ridge  which  was 
the  boundary  of  Bedegraine  to  the  south, 
all  was  fair  and  fertile.  The  land  teemed 
with  prosperity,  and  the  peasants  were 
well  fed.  The  village,  as  he  rode  through 
it  on  his  way,  was  well  kept  and  large, 
far  different  from  the  wretched  hamlet  of 
so  many  years  before ;  and  the  castle,  when 
he  neared  it,  seemed  so  strong  that  no 
force  could  master  it.  Yet  Marrok  was 
humble,  and  when  from  the  window  in 
the  hall  he  looked  abroad  once  more  upon 
61 


*SY/'  Marrok 

lis  lands,  his  heart  was  heavy.  He  went 
sadly  to  his  seat  upon  the  dais.  Sitting 
there,  he  turned  his  eyes  upward. 

"  O  God,"  he  prayed,  "  wilt  Thou  send 
me  one  to  guard  this  land,  this  people, 
and  my  son?" 


« 

/ 


CHAPTER  VII 

HOW    AGATHA    THE    NURSE    ADVISED 

MAKROK,    AND    OF   WHAT    THE 

KNIGHT   DID 

Morgan  le  Fay  was  a  princess  wise, 
And  sister  half  of  Arthur's  blood  ; 

But  in  that  day  none  did  surmise 
That  for  the  evil  part  she  stood. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

MAREOK  sat  thoughtful,  even  sad. 
He  knew  what  was  to  come.  For 
himself  he  cared  not.  To  go  where  he 
was  sent,  to  do  as  he  was  bidden,  to 
fight, —  even  to  die, —  were  parts  of  his 
duty  toward  his  lord.  But  to  leave  his 
people,  whom  he  regarded  as  his  children, 
was  hard.  He  had  reclaimed  Bedegraine, 
he  had  made  happiness  possible  in  the 
land.  Should  war  in  his  absence  sweep 
over  the  region,  all  which  he  had  built  up 
would  be  destroyed  like  tender  plants 
63 


Sir  Marrok 

stamped  into  the  ground.  And  to  leave 
his  son  —  that  was  the  hardest  of  all! 

Some  one  came  into  the  empty  hall  — 
Agatha  the  nurse,  leading  his  seven-year 
son.  "  Oh,  my  lord,"  she  cried,  "  what  is 
this  I  hear?  You  will  leave  us?" 

"I  must." 

She  ran  and  knelt  at  his  feet;  she  made 
the  boy,  who  knew  nothing  of  it  all,  kneel 
and  clasp  his  little  hands.  She  knew  it 
was  of  no  use  —  knew  that  Marrok  must 
go;  but  Agatha  was  ever  an  actress. 
And  Marrok,  irritated  at  the  useless  plea, 
took  the  child  in  his  arms.  Wise  man 
that  he  was,  in  only  one  thing  was  he 
ever  at  fault  —  in  his  judgment  of  women. 
Good  women  he  knew,  thanks  to  his  wife. 
But  of  Agatha  sometimes  he  felt  a  vague 
distrust. 

"  Peace,  woman !  "  he  said. 

She  rose  and  stood  before  him  humbly. 
"  Oh,  my  lord,"  she  said,  "  now  truly  I  see 
that  thou  must  go.  Tell  me,  then,  what 
64 


Agatha  the  Nwse  Advises  Marrok 

wilt  thou  do  for  the  safety  of  us  here  left 
behind,  and  of  thy  little  son?  " 
,.  "Agatha,"  said  Marrok,  "even  that  it 
is  which  troubles  me  sorest.  There  is 
Father  John,  and  Bennet  who  waxeth  old, 
and  I  can  perhaps  leave  behind  one  of  my 
men-at-arms/" 

'Thy  neighbors?"  asked  Agatha. 

•c  Nay,"  said  Marrok.  "  Brian  and  Moris 
must  do  as  I  —  gird  on  armor  and  fight 
for  the  kin<  .  And  their  sons  are  young, 
and  Sir  Si  ion  is  old.  There  is  no  one  of 
firm  hand  to  rule  in  my  place." 

"  'T  is  true,"  said  Agatha. 

"If  but  my  wife  were  alive!"  said 
Marrok.  "She  had  the  mind  of  a  man. 
I  can  leave  behind  none  but  a  priest  and 
an  old  man  to  guard  my  people.  But 
Agatha,  thou  art  wise,  and  thou  art  of  the 
council  of  Morgan  le  Fay.  I  pray  you, 
think  and  devise  a  scheme." 

Now  in   those   early  days,  before  the 
coming  of  Arthur  to  his  own,  it  was  not 
5  65 


Sir  Marrok 

known  what  Morgan  le  Fay  truly  was. 
Daughter  was  she  to  Igraine,  and  there 
fore  half-sister  of  Arthur,  yet  much  his 
elder.  A  princess  and  powerful,  deeply 
learned  in  necromancy,  she  was  held 
almost  in  like  honor  with  Merlin,  as  one 
who  wished  the  realm  nothing  but  good. 
But  in  truth  she  was  a  sorceress  of  great 
and  terrible  powers,  whose  magic  arts,  in 
after-years,  were  like  to  wreck  the  king 
dom  of  Britain.  And  already  she  was 
spreading  her  nets  throughout  the  island. 
Her  council  was  formed  of  women,  widely 
scattered  that  they  might  give  her  every 
information,  and,  like  herself,  learned  in 
the  black  arts,  though  to  others  they 
seemed  healers  and  good  leeches,  well  to 
have  in  any  gentle  household.  Such  was 
Agatha,  the  nurse  of  Marrok' s  son,  a 
woman  skilled  in  the  use  of  herbs  in  ill 
ness,  and  well  read  in  books.  She  di 
rected  the  women  of  the  household,  and 
had,  with  Father  John,  the  care  of  the 
upbringing  of  the  boy. 
66 


Agatha  the  Nurse  Advises  Marrok 

"Ah,"  said  Agatha,  sighing,  "if  but 
my  lady  were  alive,  then  should  we  all 
fyave  safety  in  thy  absence.  Truly  could 
she  defend  the  castle  and  administer  the 
lands.  And,  my  lord,  I  see  but  one  way 
to  leave  us  in  equal  safety;  for  Father 
John  and  Bennet  are  but  weak  bulwarks 
against  misfortune." 

"What  is  thy  plan?" 

c  Thou  shouldst  marry  again." 

"Marry?     But  whom?" 

"  The  Lady  Irma." 

Then  Marrok  rose  to  his  feet  and  cried, 
"Never!"  For  when  Agatha  first  pro 
posed  he  should  marry  he  smiled  in  con 
tempt,  but  when  he  heard  the  name,  and 
saw  that  the  Lady  Irma  was  the  one  person 
who  in  his  absence  could  take  his  place, 
he  rebelled  at  the  idea  of  placing  her  in 
his  wife's  seat. 

"  Truly,"  said  Agatha,  "  the  idea  seems 

to  me  good.     The  Lady  Irma  is  discreet 

and   wise.      Moreover,    she   hath    a   firm 

hand  to  keep  thy  lands  in  order.     And 

67 


Sir  Marrok 

again,  she  liveth  alone  in  her  moated 
grange  within  Bedegraine,  where  is  no 
protection  against  danger.  It  would  at 
least  be  courteous  to  offer  her  the  shelter 
of  this  castle." 

One  more  reason  Agatha  had,  which 
she  did  not  offer,  namely,  that  Irma  was 
also  of  the  council  of  Morgan  le  Fay. 

Then  Marrok  bowed  his  head  and  said : 
"  Leave  me,  and  the  child  with  me." 
Agatha,  turning  at  the  door  of  the  hall, 
saw  how  his  fingers  drummed  upon  the 
arm  of  his  chair,  and  went  away  smiling, 
content.  But  Marrok  sat  and  thought, 
moving  not  and  saying  nothing,  until  his 
child  slept  in  his  arm.  At  last,  when  it 
was  near  sunset,  he  rose  from  his  seat. 
Sorely  against  his  will,  he  had  decided  to 
give  his  son  another  mother  and  his  peo 
ple  a  protectress.  He  laid  the  sleeping 
child  in  Agatha's  arms,  ordered  his  horse 
to  be  saddled,  and  rode  away  in  the  won 
derful  summer  evening. 

Beautiful  was  Bedegraine  with  the  last 
68 


Agatha  the  Nurse  Advises  Marrok 

light  lingering  among  its  leaves.  But 
Marrok,  thoughtful,  saw  nothing  of  the 
beauty  as  he  guided  the  horse  along 
the  little-used  path.  He  stopped  before 
the  lonely  dwelling  of  the  Lady  Irma.  In 
the  dusk  it  seemed  gloomier  than  ever 
before,  and  its  tottering  palisades,  its 
sunken  ridge-pole,  made  it  seem  heavy 
with  the  secrets  of  centuries.  When  he 
was  admitted  and  stood  waiting,  the  dim 
shapes  and  shadows  were  strange  and 
even  awesome. 

And  had  Marrok  cared  to  think  upon 
these  things,  or  had  he  known  what  he 
looked  upon,  he  might  have  felt  some 
such  dread  as  those  peasants  felt  who 
shunned  the  building.  The  tapestries  on 
the  walls  represented  the  sorceries  of 
Medea,  the  magic  of  Circe,  and  the 
strange,  mysterious  rites  of  Isis.  Vessels 
of  curious  shapes  hung  from  the  rafters, 
books  stood  on  shelves,  and  vials  with 
many-colored  contents  were  ranged 
against  the  walls.  These  were  not  holy 
69 


Sir  Marrok 

things.  Yet  their  use  and  meaning  he 
could  not  interpret  with  his  unlettered 
skill;  he  looked  upon  Irma  as  a  wise 
woman  to  whom  these  things  were  but  as 
playthings,  and  he  puzzled  not  over  their 
use.  In  truth,  before  he  had  long  time 
to  think,  a  bright  little  figure,  like  a  dart 
of  sunshine  in  the  gloomy  place,  ran  into 
the  chamber  and  caught  him  by  the  knees. 
It  was  Irma's  daughter  Gertrude. 

Then  Irma  herself  stood  before  him, 
grave  and  beautiful  and  tall.  Dark 
were  her  hair  and  eyes;  her  skin  was  as 
the  olive  of  the  South.  Graceful  was  her 
form,  and  courteous  the  words  and  ges 
tures  with  which  she  bade  him  welcome. 
Marrok,  as  he  stooped  and  lifted  the  child 
from  the  ground,  noted  that  she  was  dif 
ferent  from  her  mother  in  everything — in 
golden  hair,  blue  e}^es,  and  cheek  as 
fair  as  a  rose-petal.  He  held  her  within 
the  crook  of  his  arm,  and  spoke  to  her 
mother  from  out  his  open,  manly  nature. 

"My  Lady  Irma,"  he  said,  "this  day 
heard  I  news,  the  saddest  for  this  king- 
70 


Agatha  the  Nurse  Advises  Marrok 

dom  that  has  come  in  many  years.  Uther 
is  dead,  and  over  his  throne  has  arisen 
strife.  The  realm  of  Britain  will  be  rent 
in  twain." 

"Sir  Marrok,"  cried  the  lady,  as  in  sur 
prise,  "I  grieve!"  But  in  truth  she  was 
not  surprised,  nor  did  she  grieve:  for  as 
to  the  news,  she  had  known  it  many  days ; 
and  as  to  what  Marrok  should  say  to  her, 
she  had  wished  it  long. 

"  My  lady,"  said  Marrok,  "  we  may  all 
grieve,  for  war  is  the  most  dreadful  thing 
on  this  earth,  and  of  what  may  happen  to 
our  poor  people  here  in  Bedegraine  I 
tremble  to  think.  Two  days  hence  must 
I  forth  to  the  war,  and  leave  behind  all 
that  I  love." 

"Nay,"  said  Irma,  "is  it  sooth?  And 
who,  Sir  Marrok,  will  guard  your  people 
and  your  lands  till  your  return?" 

"  My  lady,"  answered  Marrok,  "  let  this 
child,  your  little  Gertrude,  appeal  to  your 
own  heart,  and  let  you  know  my  fears 
for  my  son,  and  for  my  vassals,  who  are 
as  my  children.  And  as  for  what  I  shall 
71 


Sir  Marrok 

say  to  yon,  if  it  come  hastily  and  blunt,  I 
beg  you  to  pardon  my  lack  of  courtliness, 
remembering  that  I  am  but  a  rough  knight, 
and  that  there  is  no  time  for  delay." 

"Sir  Marrok,"  replied  the  lady,  "I  pray 
you  speak  without  fear  of  my  opinion." 

She  stood  waiting  for  his  words.  But 
Marrok,  as  he  tried  to  speak,  felt  that 
something  tied  his  tongue.  Beautiful  as 
Irma  was,  and  strong  of  character  like 
wise,  he  could  not  ask  her  to  be  his  wife. 
Marriage  without  love  was  impossible  to 
him,  and  this  was  not  at  all  a  matter  of 
love.  Remembering  how,  years  before, 
on  bended  knee,  he  had  begged  Sir  Simon's 
daughter  for  her  hand,  he  grew  red  and 
stood  speechless. 

The  lady  glanced  at  his  face  quickly, 
and  thought  that  she  read  all  that  was 
written  there  plainly  as  in  a  book.  Then 
she  dropped  her  eyes  and  stood  waiting, 
while  the  little  girl  cooed  and  stroked  with 
her  soft  hand  Marrok's  face.  Then  finally 
he  found  voice  and  spoke. 
72 


Agatha  the  Nurse  Advises  Marrok 

"  My  lady,"  he  said,  "  I  beg  you  to  leave 
this  place  and  come  .to  my  castle,  and  in 
my  absence  rule  over  my  people  and  my 
lands.  It  is  much  that  I  ask,  but  in  the 
castle  is  safety,  and  this  will  be  a  place 
of  danger.  Also  will  you  earn  much 
gratitude  from  all."  Remembering  what 
he  had  come  to  say,  his  voice  died  away 
and  he  looked  upon  the  floor. 

But  the  lady's  face  flushed,  and  her 
eyes  flashed,  for  she  had  expected  a  pro 
posal  of  marriage.  Had  he  been  looking 
at  her  he  must  have  perceived  her  anger. 
But  she  controlled  it  quickly,  and  thought 
how  she  should  answer:  whether  (and 
here  her  anger  would  rule),  with  irony, 
that  she  was  his  vassal  and  would  obey; 
or  (and  this  would  be  with  craft)  that  she 
was  thankful  for  his  thought  of  her.  And 
she  said  to  herself:  "To  wait  is  wise,  for 
to  those  who  wait  power  comes  in  the  end." 
So  she  answered  him  humbly  and  sweetly: 

"  You  honor  me  much,  Sir  Marrok,  and 
in  deep  gratitude  I  accept  your  offer." 
73 


Sir  Marrok 

Then  Marrok  bowed  and  thanked  her 
from  his  heart,  and  for  a  while  they  spoke 
together,  planning  when  she  should  come 
to  the  castle.  The  knight  was  much 
pleased,  for  in  all  she  said  Irma  showed 
great  understanding,  and  he  thought  that 
now  everything  would  go  well.  As  he 
took  his  leave  he  said  (for  the  lovely 
child  had  touched  his  heart,  and  the  hope 
of  good  to  his  people  made  him  speak 
freely) :  '  Who  knows  the  future,  my 
lady?  Perhaps  after  us  our  children  may 
marry,  and  rule  long  happily  in  Bede- 
graine."  Then  he  mounted  his  horse,  and 
rode  homeward  cheerfully. 


74 


GHAPTEE   VIII 

OF    THE    DEPARTURE    OF    MARROK    TO 
THE    WAR 

And  ere  the  knight  his  farewell  spoke, 
Leaving  his  land,  his  place,  and  pelf, 

He  asked  the  pledge  that  many  broke  : 
They  should  serve  Irma  as  himself. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

O~N  the  morning  of  the  appointed  day 
the  vassals  of  Marrok  came  to  the 
castle.  Great  and  small,  knight,  squire, 
and  peasant,  all  were  stirring  before  the 
break  of  day,  those  first  who  came  from 
the  greatest  distances.  Long  lines  of 
men,  in  armor  and  with  weapons,  horsed 
or  on  foot,  thronged  the  ways  that  led 
to  the  castle.  Even  the  women  of  the 
nearer  hamlets  came,  to  take  farewell 
of  their  lord.  There  came  Moris  of  the 
Rock  and  his  son,  and  Sir  Brian  with 
his  son,  and  Sir  Simon  with  his  son, 
75 


Sir  Marrok 

and  Richard,  the  prior  of  the  abbey ;  and 
all  that  were  to  go  were  properly  equipped. 
But  most  conspicuous  of  all  was  the  Lady 
Irma  in  a  horse-litter,  with  -her  daughter 
on  a  little  ambling  pad,  and  with  horses 
and  wains  laden  with  the  possessions  of 
the  lady  —  her  books  and  her  strange 
utensils. 

And  Marrok  with  sad  heart  welcomed 
them  all,  from  the  knights  even  to  the 
peasants;  and  as  the  poorer  sort  came  in 
he  separated  them  in  companies,  some  to 
go  and  some  to  stay.  To  the  Prior  Rich 
ard  he  said: 

'Where,  then,  is  Anselm,  and  why  has 
he  not  come?" 

Anselm  the  abbot,  as  the  prior  said, 
was  not  well  on  that  day,  so  Richard  had 
come  in  his  place.  But  all  else  who 
should  be  there  were  there,  and  Marrok 
did  the  Lady  Irma  the  greatest  honor  be 
fore  them  all,  for  he  sat  her  on  the  dais 
in  the  hall,  and  himself  stood.  Then 
Father  John  appeared,  all  in  his  richest 
76 


Of  Marrok' s  Going  to  the  War 

priestly  robes,  and  where  an  altar  was 
erected  in  the  hall  he  conducted  service, 
asking  God's  blessing  on  Bedegraine  and 
upon  the  realm  of  England,  that  neither 
should  come  to  harm.  Then,  when  the 
prayer  and  the  service  were  concluded, 
Marrok  and  the  lady  stood  side  by  side 
upon  the  dais,  while  all  were  attentive. 

Now  these  were  the  oaths  that  were 
sworn  to  Marrok. 

First  he  asked  of  Irma:  "Do  you  now 
promise,  my  lady,  honorably  and  truly  to 
administer  my  lands  in  mine  absence,  in 
the  interest  of  me,  and  of  my  people,  and 
of  my  little  son?" 

And  Father  John  held  up  the  Holy 
Book,  and  the  lady  placed  her  hand  upon 
it,  saying:  "  I  promise  all  that  thou  askest, 
and  if  I  fail  of  my  promise,  may  God 
punish  me!  " 

And  Marrok  asked  her  again,  out  of  his 
great  fatherly  anxiety :  "  And  dost  thou 
promise,  Irma,  to  cherish  my  little   son, 
and  keep  him  in  my  absence?" 
77 


Sir  Marrok 

The  lady  swore  again  on  the  Book:  "I 
promise,  and  according  as  I  fulfil  my 
promise  or  as  I  fail,  may  God  repay  me !  " 

Then  Marrok  led  forward  Walter,  his 
silent  son,  and  placed  his  hand  in  the 
lady's,  and  solemnly  intrusted  him  to  her. 
Next  the  knight  called  up  his  vassals  one 
by  one,  the  chiefest  first.  And  Roger  of 
the  Rock,  who  was  not  yet  knight,  vowed 
to  obey  the  lady  truly,  even  as  she  should 
obey  Sir  Marrok.  And  Morcar,  the  son 
of  Sir  Brian,  who  also  was  not  yet  knight, 
vowed  to  obey  the  lady  truly,  even  as  she 
should  obey  Sir  Marrok.  And  Richard 
the  prior,  who  spoke  in  the  place  of 
Anselm  the  abbot,  vowed  to  obey  the  lady 
truly,  even  as  she  should  obey  Sir  Marrok. 
And  Bennet  the  squire,  who  held  no  land 
but  stood  over  those  who  did,  swore  to 
obey  the  lady  truly,  even  as  she  should 
obey  Sir  Marrok.  But  Father  John,  who 
was  vassal  to  no  man,  took  no  oath. 

Also  one  by  one  the  other  vassals  came, 
men  of  small  holdings  or  of  great,  and 
78 


Of  Marrok's  Going  to  the  War 

placed  their  hands  on  the  Book,  swearing 
to  obey  the  lady,  even,  as  she  should  obey 
Sir  Marrok.  And  she,  standing  upright, 
said  no  word,  but  looked  with  ever 
brighter  eyes.  Yet  she  asked  at  the  end: 
"  Wherefore  stands  Sir  Simon  aside  and 
swears  no  oath?  " 

Therewith  Marrok  went  to  Sir  Simon, 
and  led  him  to  the  lady,  and  placed  his 
hand  in  hers.  "  My  lady,"  he  said,  "  Sir 
Simon  is  no  man's  vassal  save  the  king's, 
and  to  me  he  is  a  very  good  friend.  Here 
recommend  I  him  to  you  as  a  sage  coun 
selor  in  all  difficulties." 

Then  the  lady  smiled,  and  said  to  Sir 
Simon  such  words  of  courteous  welcome 
that  the  old  knight  was  greatly  pleased. 

Anon  came  the  time  for  departure.  Sir 
Marrok  kissed  his  son  and  little  Gertrude, 
and  pressed  his  lips  to  the  hand  of  the 
lady.  Quickly  he  gave  the  word  and 
sprang  into  the  saddle.  Then  he  rode 
forth,  and  man  and  horse  followed,  even 
to  the  animals  with  packs,  bearing  food 
79 


Sir  Marrok 

and  arms  for  the  campaign.  Women 
wept  and  cried  farewell,  and,  with  their 
hearts  full  of  fear  for  the  future,  both 
those  who  went  and  those  who  stayed  said 
good-by.  Within  the  castle  all  hastened 
to  the  battlements,  to  catch  the  last  glimpse 
of  those  departing.  The  train  slowly 
climbed  the  ridge  to  the  southward,  while 
on  the  highest  turret  the  Lady  Irma  and 
Agatha  the  nurse  and  the  two  children 
waved  their  hands.  Little  Gertrude 
laughed  and  did  not  understand.  Yet 
Walter  knew,  and  while  from  his  habit 
he  said  nothing,  he  wept.  But  the  Lady 
Irma  seemed  to  smile. 


80 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOW   IT   FARED    IN   BEDEGRAINE    WITH 
MARROK    AWAY 

Now  Hugh  was  lissome,  tall,  and  strong, 

And  he  had  much  of  hardihood  ; 
Yet  were  his  ways  the  ways  of  wrong, 

And  he  was  come  of  peasant's  blood. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

T I  THERE  was  great  war  in  Britain. 
J-  The  kings  of  Gaul  and  Benwick, 
Bors  and  Ban  (whereof  the  latter  was 
father  to  the  good  knight  Sir  Launcelot, 
who  yet  was  but  a  lad),  came  to- England 
and  fought  for  Arthur  against  his  enemies. 
And  a  great  battle  was  fought  in  Bede- 
graine,  wherefrom  many  drew  wounds  and 
death,  and  among  them  were  Moris  of  the 
Rock  (who  was  slain  by  King  Agwisance 
of  Ireland)  and  Sir  Brian.  But  in  the 
battle,  which  lasted  from  midnight  until 
dark  of  the  second  day,  many  gained 
6  81 


Sir  Marrok 

honor,  and  among  them  Marrok,  who  de 
vised  the  ambushments  for  the  king,  see 
ing  that  he  knew  the  country.  And  yet 
this  battle  was  fought  far  from  Marrok' s 
castle,  for  that  stood  on  the  southern 
border  of  Bedegraine,  and  the  battle  was 
on  the  northern  border  of  the  forest,  five 
leagues.  Also  the  castle  of  Bedegraine, 
of  the  siege  of  which  we  read  in  Malory, 
was  but  a  watch-tower  near  the  field. 

Now  when  Merlin  had  promised  Arthur 
peace  after  all  that  fighting,  because  so 
many  of  the  northern  host  were  slain, 
Marrok  sent  a  messenger  southward  to 
say:  "  Sir  Moris  and  Sir  Brian  both  are 
dead.  Let  Roger  and  Morcar,  therefore, 
come  to  me,  that  they  be  knighted."  And 
the  two  young  men  rode  to  the  camp 
which  was  near  the  battle-field,  and,  at  the 
request  of  Marrok,  Arthur  knighted  them. 
But  always  Marrok  gave  Roger,  though 
the  younger,  the  greater  honor,  because 
his  father  was  the  gentler  knight;  and 
the  stripling  was  gentle,  but  Morcar  was 
82 


How  it  Fared  in  Bedegraine 

rude.  There  began  that  rivalry  between 
the  two  young  men  which  was  so  greatly 
increased  by  their  love  of  Agnes,  the 
daughter  of  Sir  Simon.  The  new-made 
knights  traveled  to  their  homes,  but  first 
each  had  sworn  again  before  the  king  to 
be  true  vassals  to  Sir  Marrok. 

Then  Arthur,  having  made  himself  se 
cure  in  Britain,  led  his  army  overseas  and 
marched  upon  Rome. 

How  he  sped,  and  what  wonders  he  ac 
complished,  read  in  Malory.  Marrok  was 
with  him,  and  won  much  praise.  And 
in  the  great  battle  in  the  vale  of  Sessoyne 
King  Arthur  gave  Sir  Marrok  high 
honor,  choosing  him  to  be  of  his  body 
guard.  But  let  us  turn  our  eyes  upon 
Bedegraine,  where,  though  there  was 
peace,  greater  harm  could  not  have  come 
in  war. 

When  Marrok  had  departed  there  was 

great  welcoming  and  many  kisses  between 

Agatha  and  the  Lady  Irma.     The  strange 

books  of  the  new  mistress  of  the  castle, 

83 


Sir  Marrok 

with  her  vials  and  mysterious  implements, 
they  locked  in  a  little  room  within  the 
keep,  where  the  thick  walls  gave  greatest 
safety.  None  but  Irma  and  Agatha  might 
enter  therein,  and  at  times  —  often  in  the 
night  at  the  dark  of  the  moon — they  re 
tired  there  for  hours.  Yet  at  first,  when 
the  armies  of  the  king  were  still  within 
England,  the  lady  ruled  in  Bedegraine  as 
Marrok  himself,  with  such  clear  judgment 
and  steady  hand  that  the  people  marveled 
at  her. 

At  these  times  the  Lady  Irma  consulted 
much  with  Father  John  the  priest  and 
with  Bennet  the  squire,  the  trustiest  of 
the  servants  of  Marrok.  From  them  she 
learned  all  the  ways  of  Bedegraine,  its 
riches  and  its  people.  With  Agatha  she 
spoke  much  in  secret,  and  with  her  she 
went  publicly  among  the  people,  until, 
like  Marrok,  she  knew  each  house  and  its 
inmates.  Also  she  consulted  with  Sir 
Simon,  or  rode  to  the  abbey,  where  always 
she  was  received  with  gladness  and  re- 
84 


How  it  Fared  in  Bedegraine 

spect.  With  Anselm  the  abbot  she  was 
friendly,  but  with  the  prior  she  became 
intimate,  so  that  he  rode  often  to  the 
castle.  Likewise  the  lady  invited  thither 
Morcar,  the  son  of  Sir  Brian,  and  Roger 
of  the  Rock.  And  the  lands  prospered 
under  Irma,  so  that  the  peasants  did  not 
miss  their  lord. 

But  when  Arthur  sailed  for  Brittany, 
and  left  deputies  to  rule  England,  there 
came  a  change  at  Bedegraine.  Slowly 
the  Lady  Irma  began  new  ways.  She 
sent  away,  one  by  one,  the  old  castle 
servants;  and  cooks  and  serving-maids, 
grooms  and  men-at-arms,  were  turned 
out  to  seek  their  living  elsewhere.  New 
servants  took  their  places,  and  some  had 
not  lived  before  in  Bedegraine.  Yet 
some  were  from  the  region,  and,  oddly, 
were  those  who  had  never  found  favor  in 
the  eyes  of  Marrok.  Among  these  was 
the  cup-bearer,  Hugh. 

It  happened,  one  day  when  Richard  the 
prior,  Sir  Morcar,  and  Sir  Roger  were  at 
85 


Sir  Marrok 

the  castle,  that  Hugh  first  appeared  in  his 
new  duties.  And  the  lady  said,  when  he 
was  out  of  the  hall:  "What  think  you  all 
of  my  new  cup-bearer?" 

Then  Richard  laughed  and  said:  "He 
is  well  chosen."  And  Morcar,  smiling, 
replied:  "He  will  make  a  good  servant." 
But  Roger  answered  merely:  "He  is 
handsome  and  graceful,"  and  he  showed 
no  further  interest. 

It  seems,  Sir  Roger,"  said  the  lady, 
that  you  have  more  which  you  could  say. 
I  pray  you,  speak." 

'Then,  my  Lady  Irma,"  answered 
Roger,  "this  is  in  my  mind:  that  the  lad 
is  not  suited  to  be  here.  Not  only  is  he 
a  peasant's  son,  but  he  has  a  peasant's 
mind  and  a  peasant's  heart,  for  I  know 
him  well.  Only  one  of  gentle  nature 
should  serve  in  this  place." 

Then  Morcar  spoke  quickly  and  with 
irony:  "Such  as  is  he  who  gives  this 
advice." 

And    Irma    said    half -mockingly,   yet 
86 


u 
a 


How  it  Fared  in  Bedegraine 

sweetly:   "Wilt  thou   serve  here  as  my 
cup-bearer,  Sir  Roger?" 

'Roger  rose  and  said:  "You  honor  me, 
my  lady,  but  my  duties  prevent,  and  like 
wise  call  me  home  now."  And  he  took  his 
leave,  cut  deeply  in  his  pride;  for  he  was 
young,  and  felt  such  things  keenly,  as 
Morcar  knew  who  designed  the  insult. 
And  Roger  came  there  seldom  after  that. 
But  the  lady  continued  to  do  as  she 
had  begun,  putting  new  servants  in  the 
place  of  old.  When  the  second  year  was 
but  half  gone,  of  the  former  servants 
there  remained  but  Agatha  and  Bennet 
and  Father  John. 

Bennet  was  growing  old,  but  like  an 
oak  he  was  sturdy.  Cross  was  he,  but 
like  a  watch-dog  was  honest  and  kind  at 
heart.  His  advice  had  ever  been  heeded, 
and  in  the  ordering  of  the  men  of  the 
castle  he  had  always  been  the  chief.  In 
devotion  to  the  duties  of  his  place,  he 
never  failed,  even  to  the  peril  of  his  life ; 
and  once  he  saved  the  Lady  Irma  when 
87 


Sir  Marrok 

a  caged  bear  in  the  courtyard  broke  loose 
and  would  have  killed  her.  From  that 
encounter  old  Bennet  lay  a  month  in  his 
bed,  and  for  the  rest  of  his  life  could  use 
his  left  arm  but  stiffly;  and  yet  his  devo 
tion  helped  him  nothing. 

For  the  loose  manners  and  reckless 
words  of  the  new  servants  angered  him 
much.  Most  of  all,  Hugh,  the  young  and 
careless  cup-bearer,  irritated  Bennet,  so 
that  one  morning  the  old  man  gave  the 
younger  a  cuff  on  the  ear.  Hugh  went 
bawling  to  the  hall,  and  soon  Bennet  was 
summoned  before  the  lady. 

"What  hast  thou  done?"  asked  Irma, 
with  bent  brows.  "This  man  is  my  ser 
vant,  subject  to  the  orders  of  none  but  me." 

"Nay,"  said  Bennet;  "he  came  among 
the  grooms  in  the  courtyard,  and  gave 
orders  contrary  to  mine.  If  such  things 
are  to  be,  then  serve  I  no  longer  in  the 
castle." 

This  he  said  with  confidence,  for  he 
believed  he  could  not  be  spared.  But  the 
88 


How  it  Fared  in  Bedegraine 

lady  answered  quickly,  glad  at  heart: 
"  Then  pack  thy  belongings  and  go.  Old 
art  thoti  and  useless,  and  shalt  stay  no 
longer  here." 

Bennet  stood  open-mouthed,  staring. 
All  the  new  servants  winked  and  nudged 
one  another,  and  even  Hugh,  despite  his 
aching  jaw,  smiled  with  delight.  Only 
Father  John  started  out  to  protest,  and 
cried:  "My  lady!" 

But  Irma  answered:  "Peace!  The 
man  shall  go !  " 

Then  Bennet,  with  angry  head  held 
high,  said:  "  Well,  I  will  go."  He  packed 
his  few  possessions  and  left  the  castle; 
but  when  he  crossed  the  drawbridge  his 
head  drooped,  and  he  sought  his  daugh 
ter's  home  in  the  near-by  village,  nigh 
heartbroken. 

Father  John  stayed  behind  at  the  castle, 
and  sought  still  to  move  hearts  to  the 
good.  But  among  the  new  servants  he 
found  none  that  heeded  him,  and  at  last 
it  happened  that  at  the  hour  for  daily 
89 


Sir  Marrok 

prayers  no  one  came.  Mindful  of  the 
fate  of  Bennet,  he  made  no  complaint, 
but  turned  his  hopes  toward  the  two  chil 
dren,  Gertrude  and  Walter.  And  them 
throughout  a  month  he  taught  the  rudi 
ments  of  knowledge  and  the  principles  of 
religion.  But  once,  as  he  was  teaching 
them,  and  they  at  his  knee  attended,  each 
according  to  character, —  for  Gertrude 
asked  many  questions;  and  Walter  said 
nothing,  but  thought, —  once  he  turned, 
and  saw  behind  him  the  Lady  Irma,  with 
Agatha  and  Hugh  the  cup-bearer,  listen 
ing  at  the  door. 

The  lady  came  forward  and  spoke,  and 
in  her  eyes  Father  John  saw  the  light 
that  was  in  them  when  she  dismissed 
Bennet.  "Father  John,"  she  said,  "I 
have  listened  to  thy  teaching,  and  it  is  not 
good.  Saidst  thou  not:  cWe  all  should 
love  the  commands  of  God  above  the 
desires  of  men,  and  obey  God  even  rather 
than  a  parent'?" 

"  Ay,"  said  the  priest,  and  he  saw  what 
was  coming. 

90 


How  it  Fared  in  Bedegraine 

Then  the  lady  stamped  her  foot,  and 
her  eyes  flashed.  "  But  I  say  that  sub 
mission  is  the  virtue  of  a  child,  to  every 
word  that  its  parent  commandeth.  How 
shall  a  child  think  for  itself  against  the 
wishes  of  its  parent?  False  priest,  begone, 
and  take  thy  teachings  elsewhere!" 

Father  John  saw  on  the  lips  of  Agatha 
and  Hugh  smiles  such  as  he  saw  when 
Bennet  went  away.  But  the  kindly  fa 
ther  stooped  and  kissed  each  child,  and,  as 
he  was,  with  neither  scrip  nor  cloak,  went 
down  the  stairs  to  the  gate  of  the  castle. 
There,  with  sign  and  word,  he  blessed  it 
and  its  inmates,  and  went  away. 

Thus  Bennet  and  Father  John  went  to 
the  village  outside  the  castle,  there  to 
dwell.  To  the  people  Bennet  became  a 
great  helper,  being  wise  in  all  things 
worldly,  whether  the  work  in  the  fields, 
or  the  building  of  houses,  or  the  care  of 
animals,  or  the  making  and  use  of  arms. 
But  Father  John  soon  became  a  guide  in 
other  troubles,  and  people  came  to  him 
every  day  for  help  and  counsel.  They 
91 


Sir  Marrok 

built  him  a  church  and  a  manse.  Because 
in  the  castle  the  lady  now  seldom  sat  to 
judge  causes,  and  her  justice  had  become 
injustice,  the  disputes  of  the  vassals  were 
at  last  brought  to  the  father  for  settle 
ment,  and  by  him  wisely  adjudged. 

And  daily  in  the  castle  were  music  and 
singing  and  great  merriment.  Yet  on  the 
face  of  the  child  Walter  were  seldom 
seen  smiles,  for,  though  but  nine  years  of 
age,  he  was  not  happy,  with  his  father 
and  Bennet  and  Father  John  all  away. 
Only  with  Gertrude,  when  they  two  were 
alone,  could  he  be  merry.  And  the  Lady 
Irma,  viewing  his  sober  face,  felt  as  if  he 
were  watching  her  acts  to  remember  them 
against  her.  She  grew  to  hate  him. 


92 


CHAPTEE  X 

YET    MORE    OF    WHAT    HAPPENED    IN 

BEDEGRAINE    IN   MAKROK'g 

ABSENCE 

The  news  came  flying  from  the  south, 

A  fearful  word  for  all,  I  ween ; 
In  haste  it  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth, 

And  sadder  folk  were  never  seen. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

THERE  came  at  last  the  autumn  of  the 
second  year  since  Marrok' s  depar 
ture.  There  was  uneasiness  among  the 
peasants  of  Bedegraine,  and  mistrust  of 
the  lady  was  changing  to  hostility  and 
fear.  Also  parties  were  rising.  For  Sir 
Simon  came  seldom  to  the  castle,  and  Sir 
Roger  only  when  he  must;  but  Sir  Mor- 
car  and  Richard  the  prior  were  often  with 
the  lady.  And  men  looked  forward  to 
an  unpleasant  future,  longing  for  the 
return  of  their  lord.  Yet  all  the  time 
93 


Sir  Marrok 

Marrok  was  with  Arthur  in  France,  fight 
ing  in  great  battles  against  Lucius  the 
Emperor  of  Rome. 

One  day  the  lady  sent  a  messenger  to 
Sir  Simon,  begging  him  to  come  to  the 
castle,  and  when  the  knight  came  he 
found  Sir  Morcar  there. 

"  Sir  Simon,"  said  Irma,  "  here  is  Sir 
Morcar,  who  has  come  to  me  suing  that  I 
help  him  in  a  matter  which  is  near  his 
heart.  Therefore  I  have  sent  for  you  to 
help  us  both." 

"  My  lady,"  answered  the  white-haired 
knight,  "  in  whatever  way  I  may  serve 
you,  being  mindful  of  the  duties  that  I 
owe  to  others,  I  will." 

Then  Irma  saw  that  Sir  Simon  guessed 
her  purpose,  since  he  spoke  of  his  duties 
"to  others."  But  she  smiled  winningly, 
and  said: 

"  Behold,  Sir  Simon,  one  who  languishes 
for  love;  for  Sir  Morcar  desires  greatly  to 
marry  your  daughter  Agnes.     And  I  pray 
you,  give  her  to  him  as  his  wife." 
94 


Of  What  Befell  in  Marroh's  Absence 

But  Sir  Simon  had  his  answer  ready, 
for  he  desired  not  Sir  Morcar  as  a  son-in- 
law;  moreover,  young  though  the  maiden 
was,  he  thought  her  already  inclined 
toward  Sir  Roger. 

"  My  lady,"  he  said,  "  and  you,  Sir 
Morcar,  who  honor  me  greatly,  pardon 
me  if  I  answer  not  to  please  you.  But 
my  daughter  is  over-young  to  marry; 
there  are  some  years  yet  before  she  need 
make  her  choice.  And  I  have  promised 
her  that  her  own  choice  shall  she  make, 
even  as  her  sister  did  when  she  chose  Sir 
Marrok." 

That  was  all  that  was  said  at  that  time 
of  this  matter,  but  Sir  Simon  was  sorry 
of  it  as  he  rode  home  alone.  He  wished 
that  his  lands  bordered  on  those  of  Sir 
Roger;  yet  instead  Sir  Morcar  was  his 
neighbor,  and  the  old  knight  was  between 
two  who  were  becoming  enemies  of  his, 
while  Sir  Roger  lived  three  leagues  away 
across  the  forest.  Sir  Simon  longed 
greatly  for  a  house  of  stone,  and  wished 
95 


Sir  Marrok 

again  that  he  had  followed  the  counsel 
of  Sir  Marrok.  And  going  home,  he 
strengthened  his  wooden  grange  anew, 
and  kept  his  granaries  always  full;  but 
nothing  happened  for  a  long  while,  and 
in  the  end  all  his  care  did  not  avail  him. 

But  Morcar  and  the  lady  talked  long 
together,  and  she  told  him  plainly  he 
must  wait.  Yet  she  said:  "I  will  hire 
me  archers  to  serve  me.  And  do  you 
strengthen  your  following.  Some  day 
we  shall  do  as  we  please." 

So  the  Lady  Irma  sought  to  hire  archers, 
and  she  sent  word  round  all  Bedegraine 
that  good  bowmen  would  be  paid  wrell. 
Yet,  save  one  or  two,  none  of  the  vassals 
offered  themselves,  since  they  liked  her 
ways  less  and  less,  and  were  afraid  to 
trust  her.  Then  she  sent  farther  away, 
and  got  men  from  otherwhere,  who  would 
obey  her  in  everything.  She  armed  them 
well,  and  .soon  it  came  to  pass  that  the 
peasants  dreaded  to  see  them  riding  from 
the  castle,  whether  to  trample  in  the  fields, 
96 


Of  What  Befell  in  Marrok's  Absence 

or  to  demand  food  and  drink  in  the  vil 
lages.  The  vassals  thought  of  the  days 
before  Marrok  came. 

It  drew  toward  winter.  One  day  the 
lady,  with  her  archers,  was  outside  the 
castle  wall,  and,  to  do  her  pleasure,  the 
men  shot  at  a  mark.  Of  them  all  Hugh, 
now  their  captain,  was  the  best,  and,  as 
the  lady's  favorite,  received  many  smiles. 
Gertrude  and  Walter  played  near,  from 
the  edge  of  the  forest  gathering  colored 
leaves  to  make  themselves  garlands.  At 
a  little  distance,  above  the  tr£es,  rose  the 
smoke  from  the  village  chimneys. 

Along  the  southern  road  came  spurring 
a  rider  on  a  jaded  horse,  and  as  he  neared 
he  blew  a  horn.  Archers  and  women, 
even  the  children  also,  gathered  around 
the  Lady  Irma,  and  all  heard  the  words  of 
the  messenger  as  he  sat  upon  his  steed. 

"My  Lady  Irma,"  said  the  messenger, 
"I  crave  the  guerdon  of  a  bearer  of 


news. 
u 


Thou  shalt  have  it,"  said  the  lady. 
7  97 


Sir  Marrok 

"But  give  it  me  now,"  said  the  rider, 
"  for  my  news  is  ill,  and  thou  mayst  for- 
get." 

Then  the  lady,  smiling  lightly,  gave 
money  from  the  purse  at  her  belt  —  broad 
silver  pieces.  From  a  cask  of  wine  that 
stood  near  for  refreshment,  she  com 
manded  to  bring  drink  for  the  man.  He 
thanked  her,  and  drank,  and  delivered  the 
message. 

"  My  Lady  Irma,"  he  said,  "  my  news  is 
dire,  and  all  London  weeps  at  it.  In 
Lombardy,  hard  by  Pavia,  Arthur  the 
king  was  slain,  and  all  of  his  great  lords. 
And  Marrok  thy  lord  was  among  the 
slain." 

Then  the  lady  rose  and  laughed  aloud. 
From  her  girdle  she  took  her  purse,  all 
bejeweled,  and  gave  it  to  the  messenger. 
"CalPst  thou  such  news  ill?"  she  cried. 
"Better  heard  I  never!  " 

The   messenger    smiled,    for    he    was 
shrewd  and  loved  money.     The  archers 
that  stood  about  smiled  also,  and  nudged 
98 


Of  What  Befell  in  Marrok's  Absence 

each  the  other  and  whispered:  ".Now  our 
good  times  begin."  But  Agatha  and 
Hugh  smiled  broadest  of  all,  and  Hugh 
fell  upon  his  knee  and  kissed  the  lady's 
hand,  saying:  "  Fair  lady,  I  give  you  joy." 

At  these  words  the  children,  who  had 
stood  staring,  began  to  cry.  At  first  none 
noticed  them,  till  the  Lady  Irma,  hearing 
the  sound  of  weeping,  called  them  to  her. 
Gertrude's  chin  she  took  between  thumb 
and  finger,  and  raising  the  child's  face 
upward,  Irma  looked  into  her  daughter's 
eyes.  Quiet  fell  upon  the  girl. 

"Gertrude,"  said  Irma,  "this  news  is 
naught  to  thee.  Go  to  the  castle  until 
thou  art  thyself  again."  And  Gertrude 
went. 

Then  the  lady  called  Walter,  and  she 
looked  into  his  face  as  she  had  into  her 
daughter's.  He  looked  into  the  lady's 
eyes  manfully,  and  she  saw  that  she  had 
over  him  no  such  power  as  over  Gertrude. 
With  her  glance  she  insisted,  trying  to 
conquer  his  spirit;  but  still  his  eyes  looked 
99 


Sir  Marrok 

at  her  unsubdued.  No  word  passed  be 
tween  them,  but  she  knew  herself  beaten, 
and  grew  angry. 

"Come  down,  Sir  Messenger,"  she  cried, 
"  from  your  jaded  steed.  He  is  spent  and 
spoiled;  you  shall  have  another."  The 
messenger  dismounted.  Then  the  lady 
cried  to  her  men:  "Bind  this  boy  upon 
the  horse's  back!  Tie  his  feet  beneath 
the  saddle,  his  hands  behind  him !  " 

It  was  done.  Walter  made  no  protest, 
uttered  no  cry.  When  he  was  bound 
upon  the  horse  he  looked  at  the  lady,  and 
the  glance  of  the  silent  boy  was  more  than 
she  could  bear.  "Whip  the  horse  into 
the  wood !  "  she  cried. 

And  the  archers  urged  the  beast  toward 
the  forest;  but  it  moved  only  slowly. 
At  last  Hugh,  taking  his  bow,  shot  an 
arrow  into  the  horse's  flank.  With  a 
great  cry  of  pain,  the  steed  sprang  forward 
into  the  wood.  He  disappeared;  but  all, 
listening,  heard  his  hoof -beats  upon  the 
turf  until  at  last  they  died  away. 
100 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHETHER  SIR  ROGER  OR  THE  LADY 

BROKE  THE  OATH  WHICH  THEY 

SWARE  TO  SIR  MARROK 

Who  breaks  the  oath  he  sware  his  lord, 

He  doth  a  bad  and  wicked  thing, 
By  Heaven  accurst,  by  men  abhorred  : 

List  to  the  tale  which  next  I  sing. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

OF  her  great  cruelty  to  Walter  ;Irma 
commanded  that  nothing  should  be 
said.  Yet  the  news;,  that;  the -i  iirtgi  ,was 
slain,  and  with  him  Marrok,  was  spread 
through  the  country.  On  the  following 
day  came  Sir  Simon  to  the  castle,  and  Sir 
Roger,  and  Sir  Morcar,  and  Richard  the 
prior.  They  inquired  if  the  news  were 
true. 

"Alas!"  answered  Irma,  "the  news  is 
true." 

Then  Morcar  and  the  prior  looked  at 
101 


Sir  Mar r ok 

each  other,  and  their  glances  held  much 
meaning.  And  Sir  Simon  turned  sorrow 
fully  to  go  away.  But  Sir  Roger  detained 
him,  saying  privily :  "  I  pray  you,  remain, 
and  uphold  me  in  what  I  do."  Then  Sir 
Roger  required  of  the  lady  to  bring  forth 
the  boy  Walter. 

"What  will  ye  with  the  boy?"  asked 
Irma. 

"  He  is  son  to  Sir  Marrok,"  answered 
Roger,  "  and  since  Marrok  is  dead,  Walter 
is  lord  in  Bedegraine.  I  desire  to  put 
my  hands  in  his -and  declare  myself  his 
vassal." 

A;  Yea;.'  sard  Sir  Simon;  "that  is  right." 

But  the  lady  said  nay  to  that.  "  For," 
she  declared,  "until  the  new  king  shall 
instal  a  new  lord  in  Bedegraine  in  the 
stead  of  Marrok,  am  I  still  mistress  here, 
since  Marrok  put  me  in  his  place." 

Sir  Simon  was  silent,  for  he  was  un 
versed  in  the  law,  and  he  thought  that 
the  lady  was  right.  And,  indeed,  it  was 
the  law  in  those  days  that  no  heir  should 
102 


Of  the  Oat/is  of  Allegiance 

succeed  his  father  in  his  fief  until  he  had 
put  his  hands  in  the  king's  and  sworn 
fealty.  Therefore  Sir  Morcar  and  the 
prior  said  together,  the  lady  was  right. 

"  Come,  now,"  said  Irma,  "  since  Sir 
Marrok  is  dead,  ye  shall  do  this.  Ye 
shall  swear  obedience  to  me  until  such 
time  as  the  king  shall  make  Walter  lord 
of  Bedegraine." 

And  again  Morcar  and  the  prior  de 
clared  together  they  would  do  so.  Then 
Roger  stood  a  minute  in  doubt,  not  know 
ing  what  he  should  do,  for  he  was  but  a 
young  man,  and  the  situation  was  grave. 
But  he  was  quick  in  his  resolves,  and,  go 
ing  to  the  window  of  the  hall,  looked 
down  in  the  courtyard.  There  were  his 
men,  and  Sir  Simon's,  and  Sir  Morear's; 
but  the  prior  had  brought  no  following, 
save  three  or  four  monks.  And  Roger 
counted,  and  saw  that  Morcar  in  his  haste 
had  brought  but  six  men,  but  that  he  and 
Sir  Simon,  not  knowing  what  might  hap, 
had  brought  twenty  each.  And  all  the 
103 


Sir  Marrok 

men  of  Sir  Koger  were  in  full  armor,  and 
being  already  within  the  castle,  they  could 
have  mastered  it,  spite  of  the  men  of 
Morcar  and  the  archers  of  the  lady,  if 
only  Sir  Simon  would  help. 

"]STow,"  demanded  the  lady,  scornfully, 
"why  answer  you  not,  Sir  Roger  of  the 
Rock?" 

Sir  Roger  spoke  to  Sir  Simon:  "Will 
you  uphold  me?" 

"  Ay,"  answered  the  old  knight. 

Then  Roger  answered  Irma  boldly: 
"  My  lady,  I  will  not  promise  you  obedi 
ence,  for  I  doubt  your  purposes." 

In  great  anger,  Irma  rose  up  from  her 
seat  on  the  dais.  "Fie  on  you!"  she 
cried.  "  Fool,  you  shall  know  the  weight 
of  my  power!"  And  she  was  about  to 
call  her  archers. 

But  Roger  said:  "  Lady,  beware  of  what 
you  do,  since,  if  I  command  it,  this  castle 
is  mine,  with  the  help  of  Sir  Simon." 

And  Sir  Simon  said:  "I  will  uphold 
Sir  Roger." 

104 


Of  the  Oaths  of  Allegiance 

For  a  moment  the  lady  stood  in  great 
dread,  and,  between  dread  and  anger,  her 
face  was  strange  to  see. 

'Where  is  the  promise,"  she  cried, 
"that  you  made  here  in  this  hall  to  serve 
me  truly?" 

And  the  prior  cried  also:  "Yes;  what 
of  that  promise?" 

"My  lady,"  answered  Koger,  "of  that 
promise  I  make  nothing  any  more.  For 
my  oath  was  to  be  true  to  you,  according 
as  you  were  true  to  Sir  Marrok  —  and 
all  loyalty  to  Sir  Marrok  you  cast  aside 
long  ago.  Therefore  your  own  acts  have 
freed  me  from  my  promise." 

She  was  silenced  by  the  truth  of  his 
words.  Then  Sir  Roger  left  the  hall,  his 
hand  upon  his  sword,  and  Sir  Simon  like 
wise.  As  they  mounted  their  horses  in 
the  courtyard,  Irma  said  from  the  window 
on  high:  "A  strict  account,  Sir  Roger 
and  Sir  Simon,  shall  you  give  me  for  this 
day!" 

"  I  can  keep  myself,"  answered  Roger. 
105 


Sir  Marrok 

But  Sir  Simon  answered  only :  "  I  will  do 
my  best  against  you."  Then  they  rode 
out  together  with  their  men,  and  the 
drawbridge  was  raised  against  them. 

"  Sir  Simon,"  said  Sir  Roger,  "  now 
what  will  happen?  For  I  greatly  doubt 
the  future,  yet  in  my  strong  castle  I  will 
keep  myself.  But  you  live  between  two 
enemies.  Come  now  and  live  with  me." 

"Nay,"  answered  Sir  Simon;  "I  cannot 
leave  my  peasants.  And  war  cometh  not 
always  from  hard  words.  If  I  need  thee  I 
will  send  for  help,  so  fear  not  for  me." 

They  separated  and  rode  homeward, 
and  neither  went  to  the  castle  again.  But 
Irma  took  counsel  with  Morcar  and  Rich 
ard,  and  they  concluded  that  they  should 
do  nothing  at  that  time.  Morcar  rode 
home,  past  the  grange  of  Sir  Simon,  and 
sought  to  hire  himself  more  men-at-arms. 
And  Richard  returned  to  the  abbey,  and 
grew  bolder  in  his  ways,  strengthening 
himself  in  authority. 

But  word  of  all  this  went  out  into  the 
106 


Of  the  Oaths  of  Allegiance 

villages,  and  it  was  said  that  Walter  was 
not  at  the  castle  when  the  knights  were 
there.  A  whisper  of  the  truth  went  round 
about.  Then  Bennet  and  Father  John, 
with  what  few  able-bodied  men  remained 
from  the  war,  with  old  men,  boys,  and 
even  women,  went  forth  into  Bedegraine 
to  search  for  Walter.  They  found  him 
not.  Snow  came  and  drove  them  home 
ward  ;  the  night  was  bitter  cold.  Hugh, 
mounted  upon  his  horse,  guarded  by  the 
archers,  met  them  on  their  return.  He 
spoke  scornfully. 

"Fools,  know  ye  not  that  wolves  have 
come  again  to  Bedegraine?" 

And  in  proof  came  a  long  howl  from 
the  forest. 


107 


CHAPTER  XII 

OF  MARROK'S  RETURN,  AND  OF  THE 
MAGIC  OF  THE  LADY  TRMA 

She  mixed  the  spices  and  the  wine, 
She  made  the  waxen  image  small, 

She  lit  three  candles  at  the  shrine, 
And  on  the  evil  powers  did  call. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

IT  was  the  seventh  year  since  Marrok's 
departure.  And  all  that  news  was 
false  that  had  come  to  Bedegraine,  for  in 
the  battles  in  France  and  Italy  Arthur 
always  won,  and  in  the  great  battle  in  the 
vale  of  Sessoyne  he  slew  the  emperor  of 
the  Romans  with  his  own  hands.  And 
the  king  returned  at  last  to  Britain,  and 
once  more  assuming  the  throne,  first  saw 
that  all  was  in  order,  then  permitted  those 
of  his  knights  who  wished  it,  to  return  to 
their  homes. 

A  little  train,  much  smaller  than  that 
108 


Of  Mar  look's  Return 

which  had  left  Bedegraine,  rode  toward 
the  north.  Its  leader,  spurring  out  before 
the  others,  reached  first  the  ridge  which 
gave  prospect  over  all  Sir  Marrok's  land, 
and  paused  to  look  upon  Bedegraine. 
Green  wras  the  land,  as  always,  like  a  very 
Eden,  and  the  dark  mass  of  the  forest, 
which*  once  had  held  robbers,  seemed  to 
the  knight  as  a  home.  He  hastened  down 
into  the  valley. 

But  as  he  passed  along  the  road  his 
countenance  overclouded  and  his  heart 
grew  heavy.  Gone  were  the  waving 
fields  of  grain,  the  acres  of  prosperous 
crops.  Again  were  the  fields  green  with 
the  luxuriance  of  weeds,  and  hosts  of  sap 
ling  oaks  and  beeches  invaded  lands  which 
the  peasants  once  had  plowred.  Changed 
indeed  were  the  neat  and  smiling  villages. 
The  houses  were  squalid,  the  streets  dirty 
and  overgrown.  And  the  human  beings 
were  again  different  from  what  they  had 
been.  At  his  coming  the  knight  saw 
people  look,  then  hide  from  sight;  nor 
109 


Sir  Marrok 

would  they  come  at  his  call.     The  warrior 
bowed  his  head. 

"Woe  is  me!"  he  cried.  "War  hath 
swept  over  Bedegraine !  " 

Then  he  spurred  faster,  anxious  for 
sight  of  the  castle.  "  My  son ! "  he 
thought.  But  presently  he  cried:  "God 
be  praised !  "  Serene  and  strong,  the  cas 
tle  lifted  its  rugged  head  above  the  trees. 
When  he  had  it  in  full  view  he  knew  no 
harm  had  come  to  it.  "  At  least,"  he 
thought,  "that  hath  been  spared.  But 
oh,  my  poor  people !  " 

It  was  evening;  the  castle  drawbridge 
was  raised.  The  knight  blew  his  horn, 
and  a  warder  looked  over  the  battlement. 
"What  aileth  you  all?"  cried  the  knight. 
"Hath  no  news  of  peace  come  to  Bede 
graine?  Let  down  the  bridge." 

"Who  are  you,"  asked  the  churl,  "that 
you  speak  so  high?" 

"  Go  to  the  lady,"  answered  the  knight. 
"Tell  her  that  Sir  Marrok  hath  re 
turned." 

110 


Of  Marrok's  Return 

The  warder  laughed.  "Go  to!"  he 
cried.  "  Sir  Marrok  is  dead." 

"Send  for  the  lady,"  said  the  knight, 
again.  "Tell  her  that  one  who  calls 
himself  Sir  Marrok  is  at  the  gate." 

The  warder  would  have  laughed  again, 
but  from  the  knight  spoke  dignity  and 
authority.  "If  it  should  be  true,"  he 
muttered,  "then  are  we  all  sped!  —  I 
go,"  he  said,  and  went. 

The  knight  waited.  "  They  have  sup 
posed  me  dead!  But  what  of  that?  My 
poor  people !  Fire  and  sword  hath  swept 
my  fields." 

And  yet  that  desolation  in  Bedegraine 
came  not  from  the  torch  and  ax  of  a  pil 
laging  army.  The  wicked,  careless  wo 
man  within  the  castle  had  caused  it  all, 
with  over-great  tithes,  with  seizure  of 
cattle,  and  with  exaction  of  severe  labor. 

At  last  upon  its  hinges   creaked   the 

bridge,  and    the    chains    rattled.      The 

bridge  sank,  the  portcullis  rose,  the  great 

gate  opened,  and  the  knight  rode  forward. 

Ill 


Sir  Marrok 

The  courtyard  was  bright  with  torches; 
the  archers  stood  about,  each  with  a 
flaming  knot.  In  their  midst  stood  the 
Lady  Irma,  with  white  face. 

The  knight  drew  rein  and  looked  about 
him.  The  lady  he  saw,  Agatha  he  saw. 
The  rest  were  strangers  all.  "  My  lady," 
he  said,  "  gladly  I  see  you  again.  Agatha, 
too.  But  where  are  Bennet  and  Father 
John,  and  where  is  my  little  son?  " 

"  Marrok,"  said  the  lady,  "  it  is  you  in 
sooth?" 

"  It  is  I,"  said  the  knight.  "  But  where 
is  Walter?" 

"Nay,"  answered  Irma,  "would  you  dis 
turb  him  in  his  slumbers?  And  Father 
John  and  Bennet  are  in  the  village.  But 
rest  thou  here.  Hast  thou  no  word  for 
me?" 

Then  Marrok  kissed  the  lady's  hand, 
and  spoke  to  Agatha,  and  began  to  in 
quire  of  the  castle  servants.  For  Hugh 
he  knew  not,  but  he  missed  Christopher 
and  Ronald  and  a  dozen  others  of  those 
112 


Of  Mar r ok' s  Return 

he  had  left  behind.  But  the  lady  inter 
rupted,  and  ordered  the  servants  to  unarm 
him.  They  hastened  to  remove  his  helmet 
and  his  armor ;  they  bore  away  his  sword, 
and  led  the  steed  to  the  stable.  And 
Marrok  gladly  gave  up  his  arms,  and 
wrapped  himself  in  the  rich  mantle  which 
Agatha  brought.  Anon  the  lady  ordered 
food.  With  much  talk  and  laughter  she 
led  him  to  the  table  in  the  hall. 

But  a  thought  was  heavy  on  Marrok' s 
mind,  and  he  broke  into  her  talk.  "My 
Lady  Irma,  my  heart  was  sad  as  I  rode 
hither.  For  I  perceived  clearly  that  war 
hath  visited  my  lands  and  spoiled  my 
vassals  of  prosperity.  Tell  me,  I  pray 
you,  when  it  happened,  and  who  were 
killed,  and  how  many  are  left.  And  who 
hath  wrought  all  this  ruin?  Was  it  the 
army  of  a  distant  prince,  or  has  a  bad 
neighbor  come  to  us  here?  It  seems  to 
me  as  if  it  were  the  latter,  else  is  the  thing 
recent,  for  the  folk  yet  fear  a  stranger. 
And  were  ye  besieged  in  the  castle?" 
8  113  « 


Sir  Mar rok 

But  she  hung  upon  his  arm,  and  smiled, 
and  said:  "Nay,  my  lord;  of  these  things 
ask  not  to-night.  To-morrow  will  be 
time  for  sorrowful  tidings.  But  now  let 
me  go  and  with  my  skill  brew  thee  a 
drink  that  will  cure  thy  fatigue,  and  make 
thee  glad  to  be  once  more  in  thine  own 
castle."  Then  she  kissed  his  hand,  and 
slipped  away,  laughing  back  over  her 
shoulder,  so  that  Marrok  was  pleased, 
and  with  a  smile  sat  in  the  hall,  watching 
the  servants  spread  a  table,  and  waiting 
her  return. 

The  lady  went  quickly  to  her  chamber, 
and  shut  herself  in.  To  that  little  inner 
chamber  she  went  where  were  her  strange 
tapestries,  her  books,  and  her  vials.  And 
there  hung  a  little  cabinet  on  the  wall, 
made  almost  in  the  manner  of  a  shrine; 
yet  it  bore  no  holy  signs.  The  lady  took 
three  candles  and  lighted  them,  and  they 
burned  with  strange  flames,  one  red,  and 
one  green,  and  one  blue;  and  she  set  all 
of  them  before  the  shrine.  Then  she  took 
114 


OfMarrok's  Return 

wax,  and  softened  it  over  a  brazier;  with 
deft  fingers  she  kneaded  it,  and  made  of 
it  a  figure.  A  wolf  she  made,  so  small  as 
to  stand  upon  the  hand,  and  she  set  the 
figure  within  the  little  cabinet.  Then  she 
took  her  vials,  and  quickly  compounded  a 
drink,  mixing  it  in  a  golden  chalice.  And 
all  the  time  she  said  strange  words  for 
spells  and  charms. 

When  this  was  done  she  left  the  room, 
and  gave  orders  that  the  servants  should 
leave  their  work  and  all  go  into  the  ser 
vants'  hall.  Agatha  she  sent  to  see  that 
the  gate  of  the  castle,  and  the  drawbridge, 
stood  free.  Alone  she  entered  the  hall, 
and  kneeling  before  Marrok,  offered  him 
the  golden  chalice,  that  he  might  drink. 

He  took  it,  and  pledged  her.  "May 
thy  wishes  prosper,"  he  said. 

"May  thy  wish  come  true,"  she  an 
swered,  and  she  watched  him  keenly. 

He  sipped  the  wine,  and  smiled  at  the 
lady.  "  A  noble  taste ! "  he  cried. 

"Drink  it  all!"  she  said. 
115 


Sir  Marrok 

Then  he  drank  the  drink,  glad  at  heart. 
But  as  he  took  the  chalice  from  his  mouth, 
smiling  and  about  to  speak,  lo!  words 
would  not  come!  And  a  strange  change 
came  over  him.  For  gray  hair  sprang  on 
his  hands  and'  face,  and  his  face  became  a 
snout,  and  his  arms  and  legs  were  as  those 
of  an  animal.  The  chalice  fell  to  the 
ground.  Then  the  Lady  Irma  struck  at 
him  with  her  hand,  and  laughed,  and 
cried :  "  Down,  beast !  " 

Then  Marrok  fell  upon  all  fours,  and 
behold,  he  was  a  wolf,  long  and  lank  and 
gray.  The  lady,  with  delight,  pointed 
him  to  a  mirror.  There  with  horror  he 
saw  himself.  Then  she  cried:  "Out!" 

Amazed,  he  fled  from  the  hall,  down  the 
stairs,  over  the  drawbridge,  and  out  into 
the  night.  In  deadly  fear  he  sought  the 
forest,  and  hid  in  its  depths.  And  though 
his  men  came  home,  and  his  people  watched 
and  waited  long,  Marrok  came  not  again, 
and  none  knew  wrhat  had  befallen  him. 


116 


CHAPTER   XIII 

WHAT    MARROK    FOUND    IN   BEDEGRAINE 

Oh,  wild  again  the  thorn  grows  free, 

And  all  abroad  the  ivy  climbs  ; 
And,  Bedegraine,  I  weep  for  thee, 

Fallen  once  more  on  evil  times. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 


it  seems  sometimes  that  injus- 
JL  tice  and  cruelty  triumph  in  the  world, 
and  innocence  and  right  are  trampled. 
And  now,  when  the  Lady  Irma  and  her 
minions  carried  it  with  a  high  hand  in  the 
castle,  and  Marrok,  in  wolfish  shape,  cow 
ered  in  the  forest,  did  it  especially  so  seem. 
Never,  indeed,  had  more  terrible  fate 
come  to  a  man  while  living.  It  is  hard  to 
die;  but  there  is  life  after  death,  with  re 
ward  for  virtue.  And  it  is  hard  to  be 
sick  and  imprisoned;  yet  is  one  still  a 
man.  But  Marrok  was  very  beast  indeed, 
with  a  beast's  form,  yet  with  a  man's  heart. 
117 


Sir  Marrok 

Sad  and  pitiful  were  his  feelings.  Deep 
in  the  wood  he  hid  himself,  and  with 
shame  and  dread  avoided  the  sight  of  all 
living  things.  Even  the  birds  that  sang 
in  the  branches  caused  him  to  start,  and 
as  for  the  deer  that  fled  at  his  coming, 
their  fear  could  not  be  greater  than  his. 
For  weeks  he  lay  close,  living  on  the 
•scantiest  of  food,  and  grew  thin  with 
starvation  and  hatred  of  himself. 

What  was  there  left  him  in  the  world? 
Only  as  a  wolf  to  hunt  food  in  the  wood, 
miserably  to  live  as  a  beast  in  the  forest, 
hated  of  men.  And  he  cried  to  God  from 
the  depths  of  his  heart:  "Kill  me  and 
let  this  life  finish!  "  But  no  such  merci 
ful  end  was  sent. 

Long  time  he  lay  thus  hidden,  himself 
as  in  a  stupor  at  the  calamity  that  had 
befallen  him.  And  yet  the  nature  of 
Marrok  was  not  the  nature  of  a  selfish 
man,  and  this  could  not  last  forever. 
So  finally,  when  he  had  learned  to 
find  food  for  himself,  and  had  gained  a 
118 


What  Marrok  Found  in  Bedegraine 

little  strength,  his  true  nature  came  to 
him.  He  said  to  himself:  "Let  me  view 
the  place  that  I  have  loved,  and  under 
stand  what  has  happened  to  this  my  land." 
And  he  began  to  come  forth  from  his 
coverts.  First  of  all  he  viewed  the 
forest. 

Already  he  knew  the  unhappy  truth 
that  wolves  had  come  again  to  Bedegraine/ 
He  had  heard  their  distant  calling,  and 
had  listened  to  the  cry  of  the  pack  as  it 
swept  near  his  hiding,  chasing  the  deer 
for  food.  Now  he  spied  upon  them, 
counting  their  numbers.  There  were 
many  packs,  large  and  small.  And  it 
seemed  to  Marrok  that  the  wolves  were 
as  many  as  when  first  he  came  to  Bede 
graine. 

He  found  little  dwellings  that  had 
sprung  up  within  the  forest  here  and 
there,  and  he  wondered  who  lived  in 
them.  One  day  he  lingered  near  a  hut 
that  stood  by  a  marsh  not  far  from  the  edge 
of  the  forest,  for  he  wished  to  find  out 
119 


Sir  Marrok 

who  dwelt  there.  The  door  was  tightly 
shut,  yet  at'  dusk  it  opened,  and  there 
came  out  an  old  woman,  attended  by  a 
black  cat.  She  was  called  the  Witch  of  the 
Marsh,  whom  the  peasants  greatly  feared. 
Marrok  feared  her  too,  for  all  in  those 
days  thought  that  witches  had  great 
power;  and  in  dismay  he  crept  farther 
away  into  the  forest.  And  he  learned 
that  the  other  little  huts  in  the  forest  held 
other  such  creatures,  men  or  women,  and 
one,  the  man  most  powerful  of  them  all, 
lived  among  the  fallen  stones  of  the 
Druids'  Ring.  So  many  seemed  these 
workers  of  evil  that  Marrok  was  greatly 
cast  down. 

Then  he  yearned  to  look  upon  men, 
even  though  they  should  see  and  slay  him. 
He  would  steal  to  the  edge  of  the  forest 
and  look  out  upon  their  homes.  Some 
times  he  would  creep  close  to  the  castle, 
and  lie  long  in  wait,  hoping  for  a  sight 
of  his  son.  But  though  he  saw  the  lady 
and  her  retainers,  richly  clad  and  making 
120 


What  Marrok  Found  in  Bedegraine 

merry,  he  saw  never  the  boy  Walter,  nor 
Bennet,  nor  Father  John.  And  some 
times  Marrok  would  look  upon  the  vil 
lages;  but  all  he  saw  was  the  poverty  of 
his  vassals.  I^o  longer  sent  they  into  the 
forest  rich  herds  of  swine  to  feed  upon 
acorns.  Many  swine  had  been  killed  by 
the  wolves,  and  the  others  were  kept  close 
within  pens  at  the  farms.  And  only  in 
little  hidden  patches  did  the  peasants  till 
the  soil,  as  long  ago  they  did;  for  the 
lady  sometimes  sent  her  archers  and 
seized  the  greater  part  of  all  they  had. 
And  the  peasants,  Marrok  saw,  were  fear 
ful  of  what  might  happen  to  them  any 
day  —  death  or  the  loss  of  all  their  posses 
sions;  and  they  were  thin  as  their  own 
cattle. 

Yet  one  day  Marrok  heard  voices  of 
men  talking  in  the  forest,  and  looking 
from  his  thicket,  he  saw  a  dozen  going 
boldly,  men  strong  of  body  and  well  fed. 
They  were  not  archers  from  the  castle, 
though  they  went  armed,  but  were  like 
121 


Sir  Marrok 

men  of  the  lower  class.  And  Marrok  was 
glad  at  the  thought  that  some  of  his  peas 
ants  were  prosperous.  He  followed  after 
them  as  they  went. 

They  went  to  the  edge  of  the  old  Roman 
road,  and  waited  within  the  bushes,  as 
if  for  some  one  to  come.  But  when  he 
sought  to  creep  up  close  to  hear  their 
speech  and  comfort  himself  with  the 
sound,  one  of  them  saw  him,  and  Marrok 
ran  away.  Only  on  the  next  day  did  he 
return  to  see  if,  on  the  place  where  they 
had  been,  they  had  left  anything  which,  as 
once  belonging  to  man,  he  could  look  upon 
with  pleasure.  Alas,  he  saw  too  much ! 

For  by  the  roadside  men  lay  dead  upon 
the  ground,  and  horses  and  mules  strayed 
masterless,  and  chests  lay  strewn,  open 
and  plundered.  And  Marrok  knew  that 
the  men  had  been  robbers. 

Then  his  heart  almost  burst  within  him, 
and  he  cried:  "Woe  is  me!     Bedegraine 
is  again  but  a  savage  place,  and  all  the 
work  of  my  life  is  made  nothing!  " 
122 


CHAPTER   XIV 

HOW    THE    GREAT    OPPORTUNITY    CAME 
TO    MARROK 

By  baleful  deed,  on  woeful  day, 
Sir  Morcar  thought  to  win  a  bride, 

And  thus  to  Marrok  showed  the  way 
For  him  to  help  the  weaker  side. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

WHEN  Marrok  had  learned  all  these 
things,  he  struggled  with  despair; 
but  always  he  said  to  himself:  "Despair 
is  not  made  for  man."  And  something  in 
his  heart  said  to  him:  "Wait  and  trust." 
But  he  saw  nothing  that  he  could  do. 
Yet  even  to  better  his  people  a  little  he 
longed  for  the  opportunity.  And  the 
opportunity  came. 

One  day  he  lay  upon  a  height.     Bede- 

graine    lay   before   him    like   the   green 

ocean,  the  wind  moving  the  leaves  like 

waves.     In  one  place  he  could   see  the 

123 


Sir  Marrok 

towers  of  his  own  castle,  and  in  another  a 
village,  and  in  another  the  open  land  and 
wooden  house  of  old  Sir  Simon,  once  his 
friend. 

And  as  Marrok  watched,  behold,  he 
saw  new  proof  that  evil  reigned.  For  he 
saw  fighting  before  the  house  of  Sir 
Simon,  and  the  servants  of  the  old  knight 
driven  within  pell-mell.  And  men-at- 
arms,  with  archers  on  their  horses'  croups, 
came  rushing  up  to  enter  with  the  others, 
but  the  gate  was  shut  in  their  faces.  Yet 
in  a  twinkling  the  archers  sprang  from 
the  horses,  and  ringed  themselves  about 
the  house,  ready  to  shoot  at  those  within. 
And  Marrok  was  greatly  astonished,  for 
he  recognized  the  banner  that  was  borne 
by  one  of  the  men-at-arms. 

x  Those,"  he  thought,  "  are  the  men  of 
Sir  Morcar!" 

They  were  indeed  the  men  of  Sir  Mor 
car  who  had  attacked  Sir  Simon's  house. 
And  the  reason  was  that  Agnes,  the 
daughter  of  Sir  Simon,  was  betrothed,  and 
124 


Of  Marrok's  Opportunity 

was  about  to  marry  Sir  Koger.  There 
goes  with  this  a  story  of  treachery  un 
pleasant  to  relate:  how  Sir  Morcar,  by 
advice  of  the  Lady  Irma,  pretended  such 
gladness  at  the  happiness  of  the  maiden 
that  Sir  Simon  forgot  his  caution.  Then 
Sir  Morcar,  hoping  to  seize  the  maiden, 
set  his  men  in  an  ambushment,  and  at 
tacked  Sir  Simon  by  sudden  force.  Sir 
Simon  closed  the  gates  in  time,  but  the 
end  was  not  far  off. 

For  Marrok,  as  he  watched,  saw  arrows 
tipped  with  fire  fly  to  the  roof  of  the 
house,  and  marked  the  besiegers  battering 
at  the  door.  Before  long  the  gate  was 
falling  from  its  hinges,  and  the  ancient 
grange  was  burning  brightly  at  all  its 
four  corners.  Marrok  cried  to  himself: 
"  They  must  flee !  "  Then  suddenly  those 
within  came  rushing  out,  in  the  attempt 
to  save  their  lives  by  flight. 

Marrok  saw  women  in  the  midst  of  a 
valiant  little  band.  On  horseback  they 
pushed  their  way,  and  made  for  the  wood. 
125 


Sir  Marrok 

ISTobly  the  men  fought,  and  their  leader, 
who  from  his  vigor  scarcely  seemed  to 
be  the  old  knight,  was  opening  a  way 
through  the  opponents.  Some  one  struck 
at  him  with  a  mace,  and  cracked  the  hel 
met  that  he  wore,  so  that  it  broke  in  two 
parts  and  fell  to  the  ground.  Then  Mar 
rok  saw  the  white  hair  of  the  old  knight. 
But  Sir  Simon  was  dismayed  no  whit,  and 
fought  on  as  before.  Yet  another  by 
guile  got  behind  him,  and  struck  him  on 
the  head  with  a  sword,  and  the  old  knight 
fell  from  his  horse.  There  he  died,  who 
had  been  kind  master  to  his  people  and 
good  friend  to  Sir  Marrok,  and  ever  a 
doer  of  the  right  since  he  was  a  boy. 
And  Marrok  groaned,  for  the  blow  that 
killed  the  old  knight  seemed  to  pierce 
himself.  Moreover,  he  saw  no  hope  for 
the  others.  Yet,  after  all,  they  burst  their 
way  through  the  ring  of  Sir  Morcar's 
men,  and  made  for  the  forest. 

Then    suddenly  the    distant  panorama 
became  flight  and  pursuit  along  the  forest 
126 


OfMarrok's  Opportunity 

road.  A  girl,  as  it  seemed,  was  ahead  on 
her  steed,  and  Marrok  saw  her  golden 
hair.  A  young  man,  who  was  but  a  strip 
ling,  followed  her  close,  ever  turning  in 
his  saddle,  ready  to  strike  at  those  behind. 
Men-at-arms  came  thundering  after,  with 
the  knight  Sir  Morcar  at  their  head,  eager 
to  reach  the  fugitives.  And  thus  they 
disappeared  within  the  screen  of  leaves. 

Marrok  rushed  from  his  place  and 
plunged  into  the  wood. 

Now  it  was  Agnes,  the  daughter  of  Sir 
Simon,  who  led  the  flight,  and  her  brother 
who  defended  her.  Their  escape  was  sure 
if  only  their  horses  could  endure ;  and  on 
that  road  they  might  speed  a  long  way, 
then  by  cross-roads  and  bridle-paths  reach 
the  castle  of  Sir  Eoger.  And  her  brother 
bade  Agnes  not  fear.  Yet  she  knew  by 
the  laboring  breath  of  her  horse  that  the 
poor  beast  was  wounded  and  could  not 
run  far.  In  fact,  when  they  were  scarce 
a  mile  within  the  forest,  the  horse  stopped 
and  stood  trembling,  ready  to  sink.  The 
127 


Sir  Marrok 

pursuers  shouted  and  spurred  the  faster. 
Her  brother  cried:  "Into  the  woods!" 
and  turning,  rode  to  meet  his  fate.  Eight 
at  Sir  Morcar  he  rode,  hoping  he  might 
slay  the  knight.  But  Sir  Morcar,  rising 
in  his  stirrups,  struck  terribly  with  his  ax, 
and  dashed  the  boy  from  the  saddle. 

Agnes  waited  till  she  saw  her  brother 
fall,  then  sprang  to  the  ground  and  slipped 
into  the  covert.  Where  the  bushes  were 
thick  she  ran,  as  she  had  hidden  a  hun 
dred  times  when  playing  with  her  com 
panions  ;  yet  a  far  different  chase  was  this. 
Behind  her  she  heard  shouts,  and  men 
crashing  in  the  bushes.  Carefully  she 
saved  herself,  and  ran,  not  with  speed  but 
with  caution,  seeking  always  to  keep  hid 
den,  while  still  the  noises  sounded  behind 
her.  Then  pattering  on  the  leaves  came 
steps  at  her  very  side,  and  she  thought: 
>c  I  am  caught!  "  She  looked,  and  it  was 
a  wolf  that  was  running  with  her. 

But  she  feared  him  less  than  the  men. 
Nay,  he   was  welcome   to   her;  for   she 
128 


Of  Mar r ok' s  Opportunity 

dreaded  Morcar,  and  would  rather  be  slain 
by  the  wolf.  She  ran  on,  and  the  wolf 
kept  at  her  side,  nor  offered  to  molest  her. 
But  at  last  she  stopped  breathless,  and 
sat  on  a  stone,  for  she  was  spent.  She 
looked  at  the  long  and  terrible  fangs  of 
the  beast,  and  thought:  "Now  let  me 
die ! "  Yet  the  wolf  looked  at  her  not  at 
all,  but  placed  himself  before  her,  listen 
ing  to  the  sounds  of  her  pursuers.  And 
they  two  were  in  a  thicket,  very  small 
and  close. 

Men  beat  the  forest  to  right  and  left, 
and  to  her  every  sound  was  a  torture. 
But  only  one  man  came  where  they  lurked, 
pushing  his  way  into  the  thicket.  Then 
he  died  with  the  wolf  at  his  throat,  and, 
as  the  Lay  saith,  he  was  the  first  man 
that  Marrok  the  wolf  killed.  Of  that 
short,  silent  struggle  no  sound  was  heard 
by  the  other  men,  and  at  last  the  maiden, 
gaining  breath  and  with  it  courage,  said 
to  the  wolf  as  if  to  a  friend:  "I  can  go 
on."  And  he,  understanding  her,  led  her 
9  129 


Sir,  Marrok 

away.  Deeper  and  deeper  they  went 
among  the  trees,  until  no  sounds  came 
from  behind.  Safe,  the  maiden  fell  on 
her  knees,  and  wept  and  prayed. 

There,  as  they  delayed,  night  fell,  and 
Marrok  watched  her  troubled  sleep.  He 
heard  a  human  voice  again,  and  from  her 
broken  words  learned  her  story.  "  Nay, 
father,"  she  cried  earnestly,  "  not  Morcar 
—  Roger  do  I  love.  Him  only  can  I 
wed."  Then  words  of  thanks,  as  to  the 
kindness  of  a  father;  and  then,  waking  to 
the  forest  night,  she  clung  eagerly  to  her 
preserver,  wet  his  fur  with  her  tears,  and, 
lying  close,  slept  again,  only  to  wake  once 
more,  crying :  "Mercy,  Morcar !  Spare  my 
father !  "  Then  she  lay  long  awake,  moan 
ing:  "Roger  —  Roger!  Oh,  how  shall  I 
find  him?" 

And  Marrok,  once  more  appealed  to, 
once  more  trusted,  trembled  with  joy  at 
the  touch  of  her  arms,  the  moisture  of  her 
tears.  And,  understanding  the  story,  he 
knew  what  to  do. 

130 


Of  Marrok's  Opportunity 

Now.  at  this  point  in  the  Lay  are  given 
two  tales,  the  one  entitled  "  The  Adven 
ture  of  Marrok  and  the  Lady  Agnes  with 
the  Bobbers,"  and  the  other  entitled 
"  How  Marrok  Gat  the  Lady  Safely  from 
the  Wolves."  The  first  tells  how  six  rob-, 
bers,  coming  upon  Marrok  and  the  lady 
as  they  journeyed,  took  the  lady  and  kept 
her  until  night;  but  in  the  dark  Marrok 
came  and  stole  her  away,  and  slew  four 
of  the  robbers  who  followed.  And  the 
other  relates  a  tale  of  the  wolves  of 
Bedegraine,  how  some  would  have  eaten 
the  Lady  Agnes,  but  others  would  have 
kept  her  among  them  to  rule  over  them, 
as  it  has  been  said  that  wolves  sometimes 
do.  But  Marrok  rescued  her  from  this 
danger  also.  These  are  the  two  tales 
which  the  Lay  gives  here.  But  learned 
men  dispute  over  them,  many  being  in 
clined  to  believe  that  they  are  additions 
by  later  writers,  and  not  a  part  of  the 
true  Lay.  Indeed,  parts  of  the  stories 
seem  not  true;  therefore  they  are  not 
131 


Sir  Marrok 

given  here  in  all  their  length,  but  only 
mentioned.  Then  the  Lay  turns  to  speak 
of  Sir  Roger  of  the  Rock. 

On  the  third  morning  after  the  burning 
of  the  house  of  Sir  Simon,  Sir  Roger 
went  forth  early  into  the  wood,  wishing, 
in  the  happiness  of  his  heart,  to  see  the 
coming  of  bright  day  and  to  hear  the 
birds  sing.  And  no  news  whatever  had 
come  to  him  of  the  sad  hap  to  Sir  Simon, 
but  the  knight  was  merry  at  the  thought 
of  his  coming  marriage.  He  wandered 
on  the  turf  under  the  trees,  and  made 
himself  a  song  and  a  tune  thereto.  The 
tune  to  the  song  is  lost;  but  the  words, 
say  the  wise  men,  are  older  than  the  Lay, 
being  taken  from  the  Chronicle.  And 
the  song  reads  thus: 

"My  Lady  Agnes,  fair  and  bright, 
Happy  I  who  am  your  knight ; 
Happy  that  to-morrow  morn 
I  shall  no  more  be  alone  ; 

For  to-day  I  ride  to  marry 
My  lady  fair 
With  golden  hair, 
And  shall  no  longer  tarry." 
132 


Of  Mar r ok9 s  Opportunity 

Thus  ever  smiling  to  himself,  and  at 
times  singing,  Sir  Roger  went  farther 
into  the  wood,  until  he  was  nearly  a  mile 
from  his  castle.  Thinking  upon  his  lady, 
and  how  fair  and  sweet  she  was,  he  went 
farther  than  he  meant.  But  at  last  he 
remembered  the  hour,  and  that  soon  he 
must  ride  to  the  house  of  Sir  Simon,  and 
there  take  the  Lady  Agnes  to  wife.  So 
he  turned  himself  about  and  started  to 
return. 

But  there,  right  there  under  an  oak-tree, 
lay  a  lady,  young,  it  seemed,  and  perhaps 
fair,  but  he  could  not  see  her  face.  At 
her  side  couched  a  wolf,  the  largest  ever 
seen,  grim  and  terrible  of  aspect,  but  fast 
asleep.  Sir  Roger  thought:  "The  beast 
hath  slain  the  lady!"  But  on  looking, 
lo !  her  breast  was  moving  gently,  and  she 
also  slept.  Sir  Roger  stood  marveling. 

At  last  he  thought:  "I  must  slay  the 
wolf  and  save  the  lady."  With  all  quiet 
ness  he  drew  his  sword  and  stole  upon 
the  beast,  meaning  to  strike.  The  eyes 
of  the  wolf  opened,  and  he  rose  to  his 
133 


AS»  Marrok 

feet,  and  Sir  Roger  was  astonished  at  his 
size.  But  seeing  the  lady  move,  he  said 
to  himself,  "Haste!"  and  gripped  his 
sword  for  the  attack.  Then  he  heard  a 
voice  cry,  "  Roger !  "  It  sounded  as  the 
voice  of  his  love.  In  truth,  the  lady  who 
had  been  sleeping  stepped  between  him 
and  the  wolf,  and  it  was  Agnes,  his 
betrothed. 

Then  doubly  he  feared  for  her  life,  and 
cried:  "Agnes,  beware  the  wolf  at  your 
back ! "  He  sought  to  pass  her,  and 
struck  eagerly  at  the  beast.  But  the  lady 
caught  his  arm,  and  the  wolf,  turning 
away,  vanished  among  the  trees  of  the 
forest. 

"Oh,  Roger,"  said  Agnes,  in  tears, 
"now  is  he  gone!  My  life  hath  he  saved; 
leagues  hath  he  led  me  in  the  forest,  even, 
when  I  was  tired,  bearing  me  upon  his 
back."  And  she  told  him  her  story. 
Then  Sir  Roger  joined  her  in  searching 
for  the  wolf;  but  he  was  indeed  gone. 

Now  as  to  the  revenge  which  Sir  Roger 
134 


Of  Mar r ok 's  Opportunity 

took  upon  Sir  Morcar  that  may  be  read 
later  in  this  book.  But  Marrok  went 
away  rejoicing.  Once  more  he  had  been 
of  use  in  the  world.  And  since  he  had 
defended  Agnes  against  the  men  of  Mor 
car,  at  last  he  knew  his  power,  and  knew 
how  he  should  use  it. 


135 


CHAPTER  XV 

OF   MARROK   AND  THE   WOLVES,  AND 
OF  OTHER  MATTERS 

For  what  is  Brute  but  body  strong  ? 

And  what  is  strong  in  Man  but  brain  ? 
And,  Marrok,  to  thee  still  belong 

The  powers  to  make  thee  man  again. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

MANY  were  the  wolves  of  Bedegraine, 
and  fierce.  They  hunted  in  great 
packs,  and  to  them  day  and  night  were 
the  same,  for  none  opposed  them.  That 
Marrok,  alone,  should  war  upon  them, 
seemed  madness. 

But  one  day,  where  more  than  twenty 
wolves  lay  sodden,  gorged  upon  two  does 
and  their  fawns,  Marrok  walked  into  their 
midst.  Slowly,  with  anger  at  the  intru 
sion,  but  with  no  alarm,  they  straggled  to 
their  feet  and  faced  him.  One  by  one  he 
measured  them  with  his  eye.  He  was 
136 


Of  Marrok  and  the  Wolves 

longest  of  limb,  deepest  of  chest,  firmest 
of  muscle;  but  he  knew  that  he  could 
do  little  against  twenty,  without  his 
human  brain.  The  plan  of  his  brain  was 
ready. 

He  singled  the  leader  as  the  wolf  who 
growled  quickest  and  loudest  of  all. 
Now  animals  have  no  speech,  and  no 
words  could  pass.  But  signs  are  much, 
defiance  is  easy  of  expression,  and  the 
cool,  slow  stare  of  the  intruder  enraged 
the  leader-wolf.  He  challenged  first, 
then  sprang, —  and  in  an  instant  lay  with 
broken  back. 

Marrok  moved  slowly  from  the  circle, 
contemptuous.  Another  of  the  pack 
leaped  at  him,  to  be  flung  bleeding. 
Then  the  whole,  recovering  from  their 
amazement,  hurled  themselves  blindly  on 
his  footsteps,  and  followed  him  furiously 
into  the  bushes  as  he  began  his  easy  run. 
In  the  long  chase  that  then  commenced, 
again  and  again  the  fugitive  turned,  and 
the  first  pursuer,  from  a  single  snap  of 
137 


Sir  Marrok 

iron  jaws,  gasped  out  his  life  amid  the 
leaves.  From  the  pursuit  but  ten  returned. 

So  began  Marrok' s  hunting.  On  the 
second  day  the  terrible  wolf  sought  out 
the  remnant  of  the  pack,  attacked,  fled, 
and  killed  the  pursuers  singly,  till  at  the 
last  three  in  their  turn  fled  before  him, 
and  but  one  escaped.  Confident,  Marrok 
sought  the  survivor  in  the  very  center  of 
the  pack  in  which  it  had  found  refuge, 
killed  it  there,  and  then  the  leader  also  of 
this  new  band.  That  night  he  lay  down 
wounded ;  but  six  more  wolves  were  dead, 
and  the  shuddering  rumor  of  his  deeds 
passed  through  the  forest.  Two  months 
more,  and  a  pack  of  thirty  fled  at  sight  of 
him. 

Then  gradually  he  herded  them  north 
ward,  from  side  to  side  ranging  the  forest 
and  sweeping  it  clear.  He  was  not  as 
other  wolves,  and  nothing  could  deceive 
him.  Here  a  band  of  six,  there  a  pack  of  a 
dozen,  broke  back  to  their  old  haunts.  He 
hunted  them  down,  every  one,  and  again 
138 


Of  Marrok  and  the  Wolves 

commenced  his  northward  drive.  Each 
time,  when  their  panic  left  them  and  the 
wolves  sought  to  return,  he  appeared 
among  them,  however  numerous,  and  slew 
without  mercy.  Neither  spared  he  him 
self.  Gaunt,  haggard,  sore  from  wounds, 
stiff  from  hard  fights,  tired  from  long 
running,  his  hunt  began  each  morning 
at  dawn,  rested  only  at  dark,  and  ceased 
not  day  after  day.  At  last,  and  for  good, 
the  wolves  fled  across  the  open  lands  to 
the  forests  far  beyond.  Forever  it  was 
known  among  them:  no  wolf  might  live 
in  Bedegraine. 

The  year  came  round  again,  and  Bede 
graine  was  free  of  wolves.  Yet  Marrok, 
scarred  and  weary,  might  not  rest.  The 
second  pest  of  his  lands  must  go.  He 
had  marked  each  house  of  warlock  or 
witch,  and  had  watched  their  actions. 
Necromancers  might  they  not  be;  he 
could  not  tell ;  but  this  they  were:  spies  for 
Irma,  revealing  to  her  the  hidden  stores 
of  the  peasants.  The  beldame  who  was 
139 


Marrok 

called  "  the  old  Witch  of  the  Marsh  "  was 
the  most  active  of  all.  To  her  abode  he 
went.  Within,  she  crooned  a  spell. 

Listening,  Marrok  cowered.  The  sounds 
in  the  air  seemed  from  the  invisible  wings 
of  spirits,  whose  powers  might  blight  him 
where  he  stood.  Yet  with  all  his  force  he 
pushed  at  the  door. 

The  Witch  of  the  Marsh  saw  a  wolf  on 
the  threshold,  and  forgot  her  spells.  Her 
herbs  fell  from  her  hands  into  the  fire, 
and  flamed  out;  she  retired  into  the  cor 
ner.  The  white  fangs  of  the  wolf  showed 
as  in  a  smile.  "She  fears  me,"  thought 
Marrok,  and  advanced.  He  seized  a  brand 
from  the  hearth. 

The  witch  screamed.  "Out!"  she 
cried.  "  Imp  of  Satan  —  beast  of  the  pit  — 
out!  Will  ye  fire  my  house?  Out!" 
Feebly  she  threw  at  him  a  dish. 

"If  I  am  of  Satan,"  thought  Marrok, 
"why  should  she  fear  me?     She  throws 
but  a  dish.     I  had  feared   spells.     Is   a 
witch,  then,  not  able  to  harm  me?" 
140 


Of  Mar r ok  and  the  Wolves 

But  he  paused  not  to  puzzle;  instead, 
he  thrust  the  brand  into  a  heap  of  tow  in 
the  corner.  Barely  did  the  Witch  of  the 
Marsh  escape  with  her  life  from  the 
destruction  of  the  hut.  Marrok  left  her 
wailing  in  the  night. 

That  night  three  other  huts  went  up  in 
flames.  The  next  night  others  followed. 
Only  the  warlock  of  the  Druids'  Ring, 
who  lived  among  the  fallen  stones  of  the 
ancient  altar,  could  retire  into  his  house 
and  defy  fire.  Marrok  scratched  at  the 
stone  slab  that  made  the  door,  but  could 
not  seize  to  lift  it.  Then  he  pushed  at  a 
tottering  stone  that  stood  near,  until  it 
fell  across  the  slab.  Imprisoned  for  days, 
the  warlock  at  length  dug  his  way  out, 
then  fled  far  from.Bedegraine. 

But  his  fellows  gathered  at  the  castle 
and  begged  protection  of  the  Lady  Irma. 
"  We  have  served  you,"  they  said  with 
quavering  voices  and  shaking  hands.  "  Do 
thou  now  help  us." 

The  lady  in  her  silken  robes  looked  at 
141 


Sir  Marrok 

the  witches  and  warlocks  dressed  in  rags. 
Long  hair  and  matted  beards,  lean  bodies 
and  shrunk  limbs  —  she  sneered  at  them. 

"  Get  ye  hence,"  she  said.  "  Out  of  my 
castle!" 

They  fell  on  their  knees.  "  We  are  all 
of  the  same  source,"  they  cried.  "  The 
great  should  help  the  small."  Their  shrill 
cries  smote  upon  the  lady's  ear. 

"You  offend  me,"  she  answered.  "Get 
ye  forth !  Ho,  archers,  drive  them  hence !" 

As  the  archers  whipped  them  away,  Aga 
tha  plucked  the  lady's  sleeve.  "  Truly," 
she  said,  "  we  are  as  much  witches  as  are 
they.  And  they  have  served  us." 

"  But  can  do  so  no  longer." 

"But  this  wolf  of  which  they  speak?" 

"Believe  you  such  a  tale?  The  forest 
wolves  are  hungry  and  bold.  The  witches 
have  been  frightened;  that  is  all." 

So  the  witches  were  driven  forth,  and 
wandered  up  and  down  the  roads,  sleep 
ing  in  the  ditches,  till   at  last,  in  other 
regions,  they  found  new  homes. 
142 


Of  Marrok  and  the  Wolves 

And  yet  —  their  story  of  the  wolf! 
Irma  could  not  forget  it. 

Outside,  in  the  forest,  Marrok  hesitated 
before  beginning  his  next  task.  To  fight 
men !  But  one  day  he  met  a  robber  alone 
in  the  wood. 

The  man  laughed.  "A  royal  wolf!" 
he  cried.  "  Standeth  at  gaze !  Sith  he 
runs  not,  I  must  e'en  have  his  skin." 
And  he  began  to  string  his  bow. 

The  distance  was  short  between  them; 
the  man  had  no  sword.  Marrok  saw  his 
chance,  and  on  his  third  task  made  a 
beginning  there  and  then. 


143 


CHAPTEK  XYI 

HOW   THE    DOINGS     OF    THE    WOLF    CAME 
TO    THE   EARS    OF   IRMA 

"Peter  the  Robber,"  the  lady  said, 
"  What  of  the  tribute  you  used  to  pay? 
Speak  the  truth  or  beware  thine  head  !  " 
But  at  his  tale  she  was  in  dismay. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

IEMA  sat  m  the  hall,  and  her  vassals 
paid  their  tithes.  The  peasants,  one 
by  one,  brought  in  their  produce  and  laid 
it,  sighing,  at  her  feet.  Servants  bore  it 
away  to  the  store-rooms,  after  the  lady 
with  keen  eyes  had  measured  each  man's 
share. 

To  none  she  gave  praise,  to  none  thanks. 
Glad  were  they  to  step  aside  without  an 
order  to  bring  more.  But  when  all  was 
finished,  she  commanded  them  to  stand 
before  her  again. 

"Knaves,"   she   cried,  "your   produce 
144 


Irrna  Hears  of  the  Wolf's  Doing's 

is  still  bad.  What  oats  are  these  ? 
What  fruit  ?  What  meat  ?  Lean  meats 
and  musty  grain  have  ye  brought  now 
for  the  fourth  year.  For  the  last  time  I 
say  it,  bring  better,  or  ye  leave  your 
farms!" 

With  the  cold  hand  of  fear  on  their 
hearts  they  went  away.  Then  from  where 
he  stood  within  a  bay  she  beckoned  for 
ward  one  who  had  been  waiting  —  a 
strong  man,  fierce  of  face. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  "thou  also  hast 
come.  Little  hast  thou  brought  of  late. 
How  much  bringest  thou  now?" 

"  My  lady,"  he  said,  and  he  bowed  low 
even  as  the  peasants.  "  Here  is  the  tale 
of  my  tribute:  forty  golden  crowns,  and 
two  hundred  of  silver;  seventy  yards  of 
silken  cloth,  ninety  of  woolen,  a  hundred 
ten  of  linen  bleached,  and  a  packet  of  fine 
lace." 

A  smile  came  upon  the  lady's  face  —  a 
smile  at  which  her  archers  were  uneasy 
and  the  man  before  her  quailed. 
10  145 


Sir  Marrok 

"Peter,"  she  said,  "Peter  the  Eobber! 
Thou  hidest  in  my  woods,  thou  robbest 
travelers  on  my  lands.  Half  thy  gains 
are  mine.  I  laugh  at  the  trifles  you  bring. 
Seek  you  to  deceive  me?" 

"  Lady,"  said  the  surly  robber,  "  I  bring 
you  fair  half  —  nay,  more.  For  misfor 
tune  has  come  among  us.  My  men  are 
frightened;  they  will  scarcely  forth  to 
rob  even  a  rich  train.  One  hardly  dares 
go  forty  yards  from  another  for  fear  of 
the  wolf.  Even  I,  lady  —  " 

The  lady  bent  forward.  "The  wolf, 
sayst  thou?"  She  waved  her  hand  to 
her  archers.  "  Clear  the  hall !  " 

The  hall  was  cleared.  Irma,  Agatha, 
Peter,  alone  remained.  "Now,"  said  the 
lady,  "  speak  plainly.  If  thou  liest,  't  is 
at  peril  of  thy  head.  A  wolf,  thou 
saidst?" 

"Ay,"  said  the  robber,  "a  wolf.     My 

lady,  't  is  two  months  now  since  my  men 

began    to    fail   me,    going    out   to   hunt, 

returning    not.     Three,   then     six,   were 

146 


Irma  Hears  of  the  Wolf's  Doings 

missed.  Then  we  came  on  one  lying 
dead.  A  beast  had  slain  him  as  with 
one  leap.  More  men  were  missed;  we 
found  more  bodies.  Then,  one  day, —  I 
saw  it  with  my  own  eyes, —  as  my  best 
man  walked  not  the  length  of  this  hall 
away  from  us,  a  wolf  rose  out  of  a  thicket 
and  killed  him  on  the  instant." 

"Nay!"  said  the  lady. 

"We  were  all  there,"  cried  Peter. 
c  Forty  of  us  within  a  javelin's  cast. 
Since  then  more  men  are  lost.  He  fol 
lows,  attacks  even  openly.  The  men 
fear.  I  fear  —  I  myself." 

"A  single  wolf?" 

"One  wolf  alone.  Lady,  there  has 
been  war  among  the  wolves.  Many  have 
died.  Now  see  we  none  except  this  wolf." 

"He  is  large?" 

"  The  largest  of  any." 

"And  strong?" 

"  Can  break  a  man's  neck.  And  cun 
ning  as  a  cat." 

"And  so,"  said  the  lady,  "ye  fear  him 
147 


Sir  Marrok 

as  old  women  fear  the  tale  of  a  witch! 
Call  ye  yourselves  men?  " 

"Men  are  we,"  said  Peter,  stoutly. 
>c  Naught  human  do  we  fear.  But,  my 
lady,  listen.  This  fortnight  past,  heard 
we  news  of  the  coming  of  a  train  of 
wealthy  merchants  through  from  the 
south.  Them  had  we  seized,  we  all  were 
rich.  I  laid  my  men  in  ambush  on  the 
road ;  the  trap  was  sure.  I  heard  the  dis 
tant  bells  on  the  mules  coming  along  the 
road,  when  sudden  fell  a  panic  among  our 
men.  My  lady,  't  was  the  wolf !  " 

"  Ay !  "  cried  Irma,  angrily. 

"  Hear  me,  my  lady,"  cried  Peter. 
"  He  slew  the  farthest  quietly ;  three  were 
dead  before  the  rest  were  ware.  Then 
sprang  he  right  among  us.5' 

"And  you  fled?" 

"Ay,  quickly,  and  he  on  our  heels. 
'T  was  twenty  minutes  before  we  drew 
together  against  him." 

"And  the  merchants?" 

"  Passed  through  scatheless." 
148 


Irma  Hears  of  the  Wolf's  Doings 

The  lady  rose  and  stamped  her  foot. 
"Peter,"  she  said,  "ye  may  speak  sooth. 
But  go.  Bring  me  the  skin  of  the  wolf!  " 

"My  lady!"  cried  he. 

"  Go ;  come  not  again  without  it." 

"He  is  a  werewolf!"  gasped  Peter. 
"  We  cannot  slay  him."  But  he  went. 

Then  Agatha  and  the  lady  looked  at 
each  other  long  without  speaking,  and  in 
the  faces  of  both  was  alarm. 


149 


CHAPTEK  XVII 

THE  STORY  OF  ANDRED,  WHO  WAS  TAKEN 
BY    THE    ROBBERS 


"  Now  fare  ye  well,  my  loving  wife  ; 

And  fare  ye  well,  my  children  three! 
Lest  robbers  take  from  you  the  life, 
I  go  with  them  to  the  greenwood  tree." 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 


was  a  man  in  Bedegraine 
named  Andred,  and  he  was  of  those 
who  came  to  the  land  after  Marrok'  s  first 
coming,  to  settle  there.  He  had  been  to 
the  great  war  with  the  knight,  following 
him  even  to  Italy;  and  returning  after 
him,  found  him  gone.  And  though  An 
dred  was  a  hardy  man  and  a  good  worker, 
he  was  discontented  since  his  lord  was 
gone  and  matters  were  in  such  a  state, 
and  he  thought  of  moving  away  from 
Bedegraine  to  the  southward,  to  live  on 
the  lands  of  some  other  lord.  For  he, 
150 


The  Storj"  of  Andred 

being  experienced  and  adventurous,  was 
different  from  the  men  of  Bedegraine, 
who,  like  most  in  those  days,  abided  where 
they  were  born,  nor  lived  in  new  places 
all  the  days  of  their  lives.  'Now  Andred 
began  to  speak  with  his  friends  of  his 
desires. 

But  they  said :  "  Here  are  Bennet  and 
Father  John  living  among  us  now,  and 
our  lot  is  better  than  before." 

He  answered:  "Ay;  but  it  is  the  life 
of  a  dog,  and  I  will  go." 

Then  they  said:  "But  your  wife  is  sick 
and  cannot  travel." 

"  Yes,"  said  Andred ;  "  but  when  she  is 
well  shall  I  go.  Come  you  with  me." 

They  answered:  "The  lady  would 
prevent." 

But  he  replied :  "  Then  let  us  go  out 
by  families,  not  together ;  and  in  the  night, 
so  that  we  shall  not  be  seen." 

Yet  they  were  unwilling,  since  in  that 
ancient  time  was  strong  in  a  man  the  love 
for  the  place  where  he  was  born,  and 
151 


Sir  Marrok 

other  places  seemed  strange  and  barbar 
ous,  even  beside  Bedegraine.  And  for  a 
long  time  Andred' s  wife  remained  sick, 
so  that  he  could  not  move  her. 

It  came  to  a  day  when  the  robbers 
issued  from  the  wood  and  descended 
upon  the  village  of  Bedegraine  for  mere 
pastime.  And  all  the  peasants  barred 
their  doors.  But  the  robbers  went  to  the 
house  of  Andred,  whom  they  knew,  and 
called  to  him :  "  Thou  Andred,  come  out 
and  fight  with  us,  and  we  will  spare  thy 
barn.  Or  give  thyself  up  to  us,  and  we 
will  spare  thy  house  also.  And  if  ye  shoot 
with  arrows  upon  us  from  loopholes,  then 
will  we  fire  both  thy  house  and  thy  barn." 

Now  Andred  was  a  bold  man,  and  for 
himself  even  desperate.  He  had  built 
him  a  house  with  loopholes,  and  was  a 
good  archer,  and  could  have  done  the 
robbers  much  mischief,  dying  gladly  at 
the  end,  being  weary  of  life.  But  he 
could  not  doom  his  sick  wife  to  death, 
nor  his  children.  And  so  he  agreed  with 
152 


The  Stoi^y  of  Andred 

the  robbers,  that  they  should  leave  the 
village  unpillaged,  but  he  should  give 
himself  up.  So  he  did,  and  the  robbers 
took  him  away  into  the  forest. 

They  kept  him  with  them  three  days, 
and  always  they  tried,  in  one  way  or  an 
other,  to  make  him  one  of  them.  But 
he  was  stanch,  and  said  always :  "  Ye  are 
wicked,  and  wicked  will  I  be  never,  so 
long  as  I  draw  breath."  So  at  last  they 
were  weary  of  him,  and  one  day,  being 
cruel  from  much  drinking  of  wine,  they 
set  him  away  to  die,  horribly  and  alone. 

For  they  took  him  into  the  forest  far 
from  their  stronghold,  and  tied  him  to  a 
tree.  They  put  food  before  him  on  the 
ground  to  tantalize  him,  and  saying  to 
him,  "  Now,  be  good,  Andred,  so  long  as 
ye  draw  breath,"  they  left  him. 

Two  days  and  two  nights  he  remained 
there,  with  the  cords  cutting  him  deeply, 
and  feeling  himself  ever  growing  weaker 
from  hunger.  And  he  thought  of  his 
children  and  wife  —  who  was  to  support 
153 


Sir  Marrok 

them;  and  of  this  as  a  reward  for  a  life 
of  right  living.  But  he  said  then:  "  Soon 
shall  I  be  with  my  lord  Sir  Marrok  in 
heaven ! "  Anon  he  fell  into  a  fever,  and 
forgot  where  he  was,  but  thought  he  was 
again  at  the  wars,  fighting  at  his  lord's 
side.  And  he  shouted  with  all  his  force, 
so  that  the  woods  rang  with  the  war-cry 
of  Sir  Marrok.  And  then,  as  he  stopped 
for  breath,  he  saw  a  great  gray  wolf 
looking  at  him,  close  at  hand. 

All  Andred's  fever  fled  away,  and  he 
gazed  at  the  wolf,  but  not  with  fear.  For 
he  thought :  "  Now  Heaven  be  praised !  I 
shall  die  quickly.  Come,"  he  called  to 
the  beast.  "  Come  and  kill  me !  "  And 
the  wolf  came. 

And  the  beast  came  close,  and  reared 
up,  putting  its  paws  on  Andred's  shoul 
ders.  It  looked  into  the  man's  eyes,  and 
its  own  eyes  seemed  as  those  of  a  man, 
kindly.  Then  it  laid  its  cheek  against 
Andred's  own,  as  a  dog  caresses  a  friend. 
But  then  it  dropped  again  on  all  its  four 
154 


The  Story  of  Andred 

feet,  and  in  a  trice  set  Andred  free  from 
all  the  cords  that  bound  him. 

-So  weak  was  Andred  that  he  fell  at 
once  to  the  ground ;  and  so  far  gone  was 
he  that  he  lay  a  long  time  in  a  faint. 
When  he  came  to  himself  the  wolf  was  at 
a  little  distance,  watching.  Andred  said : 
"  The  beast  doth  not  intend  harm  to  me  " ; 
and  so  thinking,  he  ate  of  the  food  which 
the  robbers  had  left.  Then,  after  resting, 
his  strength  came  back,  and  he  rose  and 
walked  toward  his  home,  the  wolf  follow 
ing.  And  Andred  met  no  robbers,  nor 
feared  he  any,  since  God,  who  had  saved 
him  thus  from  death,  surely  meant  that  he 
should  live.  When  he  came  to  the  edge 
of  the  forest,  he  looked  behind,  and  the 
wolf  was  gone.  But  Andred  walked  joy 
fully  to  his  home. 

They  welcomed  him  as  one  from  the 
dead,  and  he  told  his  story.  Then  they 
called  Father  John,  and  Andred  must  tell 
the  story  all  over  again.  Then  said  the 
friar:  "Let  us  go  to  the  church  and 
155 


Sir  Marrok 

there  thank  God  for  this  strange  deliver 
ance."  So  they  did  as  he  said. 

And  when  the  service  was  finished,  and 
Father  John  had  left  the  chancel,  he  said 
to  Andred  at  the  church  door:  "Now, 
Andred,  what  wilt  thou  do?  Wilt  thou 
leave  Bedegraine  as  thou  designedst?  " 

Andred  answered:  :'Nay;  for  light 
has  been  given  to  me,  and  I  understand. 
My  life  is  saved  that  I  may  stay  here  and 
work  among  my  friends  until  such  time 
as  men  in  Bedegraine  shall  be  as  kind  as 
are  the  brutes." 

So  Andred  remained  in  his  house,  and 
went  much  with  Bennet  and  Father  John, 
learning  from  them  how  to  uphold  the 
courage  of  the  people;  and  though  his 
wife  shortly  after  became  well,  he  removed 
not  from  Bedegraine. 

Now  this  was  the  first  that  the  peasants 
learned  of  the  great  gray  wolf. 


156 


CHAPTEE   XVIII 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  SWINEHERD  BLAISE 

Oh,  little  I  reck  of  land  or  of  pelf, 

And  little  care  I  if  I  live  or  I  dee ; 
But  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  lone  werewolf 

Are  the  tunes  that  you  pipe  here  under  the  tree. 
The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

A  PEASANT  in  Bedegraine  had  a 
J_T_L_  son  named  Blaise,  whom  the  people 
regarded  as  simple;  yet  he  was  only  a 
dreamer,  being  still  a  lad.  He  was  fond 
of  the  pipe  and  flute,  and  often  made 
himself  verses.  Also  from  Father  John 
he  had  learned  to  read,  and  secretly  was 
ambitious  to  be  a  clerkly  man.  Yet  to 
his  father  he  was  of  little  service  beyond 
tending  the  swine,  because  of  his  ab 
straction. 

Now  the  father  of  Blaise  had  been  a 
notable  breeder  of  swine,  and  once  had 
owned  the  greatest  herd  in  all  Bedegraine. 
157 


Sir  Marrok 

Therefore  he  lost  many  of  them  when 
the  wolves  came,  and  more  by  the  seizures 
of  the  Lady  Irma,  so  that  at  last  he  had  but 
a  dozen,  which  he  kept  in  a  strong  inclo- 
sure  on  the  edge  of  the  forest,  where  few 
were  likely  to  pass  and  see  it.  And  while 
he  himself  worked  in  the  fields  each  day, 
he  set  the  lad  Blaise  to  watch  the  swine. 
And  there  the  boy  -piped  to  himself  all 
day  long,  being  happy  with  the  beasts 
and  the  open  air. 

But  Blaise  had  pity  for  the  poor  swine, 
since  for  all  their  rooting  they  found  but 
little  food,  and  were  very  thin.  Some 
times  he  would  gather  for  them  fresh 
weeds,  which  they  ate  eagerly;  yet  some 
of  the  weeds  were  poisonous,  so  that  his 
father  forbade  him.  And  as  time  went 
on  the  swine  grew  thinner,  so  that'  some 
of  the  young  ones  died. 

One  evening  at  his  supper,  Blaise,  being 
downcast  over  their  losses,  asked  of  his 
father :  "  What  is  the  food  which  the  swine 
best  like,  and  which  is  best  for  them?" 
158 


The  Story  of  the  Swineherd  Blaise 

His  father  sighed  and  said:  "In  the 
good  days  when  Sir  Marrok  was  still 
with  us,  fed  we  the  swine  in  the  forest; 
but  then  you  were  very  young.  The 
beasts  ate  the  acorns  and  beech-nuts,  and 
were  fat  on  them,  and  their  flesh  was 
wonderful.  No  food  could  be  better  for 
swine." 

Now  he  did  not  forbid  his  son  to  take 
the  swine  to  the  woods,  for  he  had  no 
thought  that  the  boy  would  be  so  careless, 
since  all  in  Bedegraine  dreaded  the  forest 
as  a  deadly  thing.  But  Blaise  had  a  love 
for  the  great  trees,  and  their  soft,  cool 
depths,  and  the  birds  that  sang  in  the 
branches.  Especially  he  longed  to  hear 
the  birds,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
birds  of  the  forest  sang  sweeter  than  the 
birds  of  the  open,  and  he  used  to  think: 
;c  From  their  songs  could  I  make  me  pret 
tier  tunes  to  my  pipe."  Moreover,  two 
more  of  the  young  pigs  died,  so  that  the 
pity  of  the  lad  increased. 

Now  one  morning  the  pigs  all  gathered 
159 


Sir  Mar r ok 

together  before  Blaise  where  he  sat  piping, 
and  seemed  to  complain  to  him,  asking 
for  food.  It  cut  him  to  the  heart,  and  he 
went  away  to  the  forest,  a  little  way  into 
its  depths,  where  he  looked  upon  the  many 
nuts  that  had  fallen  from  the  latest  wind, 
and  saw  that,  besides  the  nuts,  there  Avas 
fine  rooting  among  the  herbs  of  the  forest. 
Then  he  said  to  himself:  "  My  father  has 
not  forbidden  me.  I  will  bring  the  swine 
hither,  and  at  evening  bring  them  home 
again  by  means  of  the  horn."  So  he  went 
back  to  the  inclosure,  and  opened  a  way 
out  of  it,  calling  the  swine.  They  all  ran 
out,  and  the  oldest  of  them  led  the  others 
directly  toward  the  forest.  Blaise  went 
after,  and  for  a  long  time  watched  them 
as  they  rooted  with  delight  for  the  herbs, 
or  ate  the  nuts.  Then  he  sat  himself 
down  with  his  pipe  at  the  foot  of  the  tree, 
and  played  until  near  nightfall. 

But  when  he  tried  to  gather  the  swine 
together  to  follow  him  home,  they  would 
not  come.     Only  the  oldest  had  any  recol- 
160 


The  Story  of  the  Swineherd  Blaise 

lection  of  the  meaning  of  the  sound  of 
the  horn,  and  Blaise  could  not  herd  the 
young  ones  with  them.  Moreover,  even 
the  old  swine  were  unruly,  preferring  the 
warm  night  and  the  fine  fodder  to  the 
barren  inclosure.  And  Blaise  was  almost 
in  despair,  for  they  avoided  him  when  he 
tried  to  catch  them.  He  thought:  "  I 
must  call  my  father  to  help  me."  But  he 
knew  his  father  would  be  already  weary, 
and  he  began  to  fear  the  task  would  be 
very  difficult,  to  herd  the  swine. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  wras  about  to 
give  up,  he  saw,  as  he  thought,  a  great 
dog  come  out  from  among  the  trees  and 
begin  to  collect  the  swine  together.  A 
very  great  dog  it  seemed  to  be,  and  once 
a  fighter,  for  it  bore  the  scars  of  many 
wounds.  But  like  a  sheep-dog  it  herded 
the  swine,  and  the  swine  feared  it,  running 
quickly  back  to  the  farm.  Blaise  fol 
lowed,  and  the  dog  at  a  little  distance; 
then,  when  Blaise  called  the  beast,  it  came 
to  him  and  suffered  itself  to  be  caressed. 
11  161 


Sir  Marrok 

Yet  it  would  not  follow  the  lad  to  the 
farm,  staying  within  the  forest.  So  Blaise 
secured  the  swine,  and  went  to  his  supper. 

And  he  thought  to  himself:  "Now 
what  shall  I  do?  Shall  I  tell  my  father 
of  what  I  have  done,  or  shall  I  keep  it  as 
a  surprise,  showing  him  the  swine  when 
all  are  fat?  "  Then  he  decided  to  do  the 
latter,  thinking  it  would  be  a  great  plea 
sure  to  his  father. 

Two  weeks  thereafter  there  came  a 
day  when  the  father  needed  his  son 
greatly  at  the  field-work,  so  he  went  for 
Blaise  to  the  inclosure.  But  he  found 
there  neither  the  lad  nor  the  swine.  In 
great  alarm,  he  studied  the  signs  on  the 
ground,  and  found  the  opening  where  the 
swine  had  gone  out.  He  feared  robbers, 
but  the  path  to  the  forest  was  already 
well  worn,  and  there  were  no  other  human 
footmarks  than  those  of  the  boy.  Then 
he  understood  that  Blaise  had  done  this 
before,  for  lately  the  lad  had  laughed 
much  to  himself  when  at  the  house.  He 
162 


The  Story  of  the  Swineherd  Blaise 

followed  on  the  track  of  the  lad,  until  he 
heard  him  piping.  Then  he  saw  him  sit 
ting  at  the  foot  of  a  tree. 

But  there  was  a  great  marvel,  for  a 
wolf  couched  beside  the  boy.  The  father 
hid  quickly,  thinking  what  he  should  do ; 
for  if  he  showed  himself  he  feared  that 
the  wolf  would  harm  the  boy.  "  The 
beast  is  charmed  by  the  music,"  thought 
the  father.  "  I  have  heard  tales  of  such 
happenings.  But  if  the  music  stops  he 
will  be  savage."  Then  he  stole  quietly 
away  to  get  help. 

By  hap  he  met  in  the  fields  Andred; 
and  he  called:  "Andred,  get  thy  bow 
and  come  quickly,  for  Blaise  is  in  danger 
in  the  forest."  Then  Andred  got  his 
bow,  and  the  two  men  went  hastily  to 
gether,  till  they  came  to  the  spot  where 
they  saw,  from  a  thicket,  Blaise  still 
piping,  and  the  wolf  lying  quietly  at  his 
side.  The  father  of  Blaise  whispered: 
"  Lay  an  arrow  on  thy  bow,  and  shoot." 

But  Andred  did  nothing,  so  that  the 
163 


Sir 

father  whispered  again,  "Make  haste! 
See  you  not  that  the  wolf  is  charmed?  " 

But  Andred  answered:  "That  is  my 
wolf,  which  saved  me.  I  cannot  shoot 
him." 

Then  Blaise's  father  was  in  great  fear, 
and  he  knew  not  what  to  do.  But  it  was 
now  late  of  the  afternoon,  the  hour  when 
the  swine  must  be  brought  home.  And 
the  two  men  in  the  bushes  saw  the  lad 
Blaise  lay  aside  his  pipe,  and  put  his  hand 
on  the  head  of  the  wolf,  as  if  thanking 
him  for  his  company.  Then  Blaise  blew 
his  horn,  and  the  swine  came  running,  and 
Blaise  began  to  lead  them  toward  the 
farm.  And,  to  their  great  wonder,  the  two 
men  saw  how  the  wolf  walked  behind, 
herding  along  the  young  pigs  who  were 
wilful  and  wished  to  stray. 

Then  the  men,  stealing  along  from 
bush  to  bush  to  observe  the  marvel,  were 
seen  by  the  wolf.  He  did  not  run,  but 
looked  at  them  a  moment,  then  walked 
into  the  bushes.  And  Blaise,  seeing  that 
164 


The  Story  of  the  Swineherd  Blaise 

the  wolf  no  longer  followed,  looked  about, 
and  also  perceived  his  father. 

"  So,  father,"  he  cried,  "  you  have  found 
my  secret!     But  you  have  sent  my  dog 


awav." 


They  told  him  it  was  not  a  dog,  but  a 
wolf,  and  they  were  greatly  alarmed  for 
him.  And  the  father,  in  much  relief, 
scolded  his  son  roundly,  which  is  the 
manner  of  many  fathers. 

Yet  Blaise  said:  "If  that  was  a  wolf, 
yet  has  he  never  done  me  harm.  For  two 
weeks  have  I  led  the  swine  into  the  forest, 
and  he  has  been  with  me  every  day." 
Because  the  lad  always  spoke  the  truth, 
they  believed  him;  and  he  showed  his 
father  how  fat  the  swine  had  grown. 

But  Marrok,  who  was  the  wolf,  went 
away  into  the  forest  with  a  heavy  heart. 
For  the  youth,  innocent  and  fearless  as 
he  was,  had  been  a  great  comfort,  while 
his  piping  was  a  solace.  And  Marrok  had 
taken  no  thought  that  he,  a  knight,  herded 
swine,  but  had  done  all  that  humbly,  as 
165 


Si r  Marrok 

one  who  helps  men.  But  now  he  believed 
that  the  swine  and  the  boy  would  come 
never  again  to  the  forest,  since  the  men 
had  seen  him  —  Marrok  the  wolf. 

But  when  all  this  tale  was  told  to  Father 
John,  he  thought  upon  it  deeply;  and 
he  asked  the  father  of  Blaise :  "  Will  you 
send  your  son  again  into  the  forest  with 
your  swine?" 

The  peasant  answered:  "  No!  " 

"Methinks,"  said  the  friar,  "it  would 
be  a  good  thing  to  send  the  boy  again.  For 
perhaps  this  is  a  sign  that  better  things  are 
coming  to  Bedegraine ;  and  surely  this  is 
the  only  way  to  save  the  remainder  of  our 
swine,  which  are  dying  on  every  hand." 

But  the  peasant  declared  again  he 
would  not  send  his  son  into  the  forest. 
Yet  this  was  talked  over  among  them  all, 
and  Andred  cried  that  he  was  not  afraid 
to  risk  either  himself  or  his  swine,  and 
Bennet  was  consulted,  and  finally  the  end 
was  this:  Andred,  armed  with  his  bow, 
took  into  the  forest  his  own  swine,  three 
166 


The  Story  of  the  Swineherd  Blaise 

miserable  beasts,  and  no  harm  came  to 
them,  but  they  began  to  grow  strong. 
And  other  peasants  sent  their  swine,  and 
Blaise  went  again,  till  at  last  he  had  all 
the  swine  of  the  village  with  him  to  take 
out  at  morning  and  bring  back  at  night, 
for  the  swine  learned  to  come  at  call. 
And  sometimes  the  wolf  was  seen,  and 
sometimes  not;  but  no  harm  came  either 
to  the  swine  or  to  the  swineherd. 

And  Blaise,  when  he  grew  up,  became, 
as  he  desired,  a  clerkly  man,  so  that  peo 
ple  no  longer  called  him  simple.  And 
when  he  was  old,  and  Marrok  and  Father 
John  were  both  dead,  then  Blaise  read  in 
the  Chronicle  of  Sir  Marrok,  and  under 
stood  all  that  he  had  seen  in  his  youth. 
And  it  is  said  that  he  wrote  the  Lay, 
which  may  well  be  true. 


167 


CHAPTEK   XIX 

OF      NORTHS     THE     MONK,     AND     HOW     HE 

WAS     SENT    INTO     THE    FOREST,    AND 

WHAT    HAPPENED    TO    HIM    THERE 

Then  Richard  could  not  eat  his  meat, 

But  chafed  at  Norris  as  he  read, 
And  thought  that  his  revenge  were  sweet 

If  Norris  were  but  lost  —  or  dead. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

fTlHERE  was  a  monk  named  Norris,  a 
A  true  man,  who  lived  in  the  abbey  of 
Bedegraine.  And  he  was  a  thorn  in  the 
side  of  Richard  the  prior,  by  reason  of 
his  stubbornness.  For  Anselm  the  abbot 
ever  grew  weaker,  and  he  was  as  wax  in 
the  hands  of  Richard,  who  did  in  the 
abbey  as  he  pleased.  Now  the  ways  of 
Richard  were  as  the  ways  of  the  world, 
and  what  with  eating  rich  foods  and 
drinking  fine  wines,  and  with  merrymak 
ing,  he  led  an  easy  life.  And  shrewdly 
168 


The  Stojy  of  Noms 

he  endeavored  to  corrupt  the  monks  to 
luxury,  relaxing  all  discipline,  so  that 
there  was  a  party  of  them  who  aped  his 
ways.  Then  would  Richard  have  entirely 
succeeded  but  for  the  monk  Morris. 

Morris  was  a  stanch  man,  and  he  loved 
the  old  ways.  Not  stern  was  he  or  harsh, 
but  unyielding  toward  every  evil  influ 
ence.  And  he  was  stiff-necked  before  the 
prior,  even  openly  teaching  that  his  ways 
were  wrong,  so  that  those  of  the  monks 
who  were  inclined  to  the  good  kept  heart, 
and  observed  the  fast-days  and  the  hours 
of  prayer,  even  though  it  was  a  diminished 
company  which  assembled  for  early 
matins.  For  Norris,  whenever  it  was 
his  turn,  caused  the  early  bell  to  be  rung ; 
and  on  other  days  he  waked  betimes  and 
roused  the  brothers,  and  by  his  word  and 
his  example  he  kept  a  little  remnant  of 
the  monks  who  yearned  for  the  old  times. 
And  Richard  suffered  this  only  because 
he  was  not  sure  of  his  position,  biding 
his  time  until  Anselm  was  too  dull  to 
169 


Sir  Marrok 

take  notice  of  events,  or  until  he  was 
dead. 

Now  there  came  a  day  when  Anselm 
lay  sick  with  a  little  fever,  and  must  lie 
in  his  bed  every  day.  So  he  was  removed 
from  the  knowledge  of  things.  Then 
Richard  went  down  to  the  refectory  to  the 
midday  meal,  nursing  wrath  against  Nor- 
ris.  And  the  monks  sat  at  the  long  table, 
with  Richard  at  the  head;  and  the  meal 
was  served  —  a  long  meal  and  well  cooked, 
which  should  delight  the  heart  of  any 
good  liver.  But  to  Richard  it  was  as  if 
he  were  eating  poison. 

For  it  was  the  habit,  as  the  brothers  ate, 
that  one  of  them  should  read  aloud  from 
a  pulpit  placed  in  the  wall  at  the  side  of 
the  hall,  so  that  all  could  hear  clearly.  On 
this  day  it  was  the  turn  of  Norris  to  read, 
and  he  read  of  the  captivity  of  the  Israel 
ites,  how  they  were  grievously  oppressed. 
And  Norris  chose  the  passages  skilfully, 
showing  how  they  bore  their  sufferings 
like  men,  and  bided  their  time,  and  in  the 
170 


The  Story  of  Nowis 

end  were  freed.  And  every  one  there, 
from  Richard  the  prior  to  the  newest 
brother,  knew  that  Norris  meant  them  to 
understand  that  he  likened  the  captivity 
of  Israel  to  the  oppression  in  Bedegraine, 
and  that  he  was  counseling  them  all  to 
patience,  promising  that  in  the  end  they 
should  be  delivered.  And  all  stole 
glances  at  Richard,  who  fumed  as  he  sat 
at  the  table's  head,  and  could  not  eat  his 
food. 

But  Richard  was  thinking  of  revenge, 
for  he  believed  the  time  had  come.  Then 
he  commanded  that  a  certain  basket  be 
brought  and  placed  by  his  chair,  and  when 
the  meal  was  finished,  Richard  called 
Norris.  The  monk  stood  before  him. 

"  ."Norris,"  said  Richard,  "  thou  art 
called  the  best  gatherer  of  herbs  among 


us." 


Now  this  was  true,  for  Norris  was  a 
good  gardener,  growing  herbs  for  medi 
cine;  and  of  the  herbs  which  grew  wild 
he   was   the   best   in    knowledge,   being 
171 


Sir  Marrok 

familiar  with  the  places  where  they  grew. 
So  he  bowed,  but  wondered  at  the  praise, 
for  he  saw  evil  in  the  prior's  eye. 

"Our  Father  Anselm,"  said  Richard, 
"lieth  sick;  and  the  leech  declares  that 
he  must  have  much  of  the  herb  called 
feverset.  ]S"ow  we  have  great  quantity, 
but  it  is  dried,  and  the  leech  must  have 
fresh.  Also  he  needeth  the  whole  of  this 
basket  full.  Therefore  go  thou,  Morris, 
for  the  sake  of  our  dear  father  the  abbot, 
and  fill  this  basket  as  soon  as  thou  canst." 

Then  Norris  looked  at  the  basket,  and 
he  understood  the  design  of  the  prior. 
For  the  herb  feverset  grew  only  in  the 
forest,  under  the  great  beeches.  Also  the 
herb  was  small  and  grew  sparsely,  but 
the  basket  was  large,  and  it  would  take 
hours  to  fill  the  basket,  so  that  the  monk 
would  have  to  spend  the  night  in  the  for 
est,  amid  its  dangers,  for  it  was  already 
afternoon.  But  the  request  was  cun 
ningly  worded,  and  no  brother  could 
refuse  to  go  for  the  sake  of  his  abbot. 
172 


The  Story  of  Nor r is 

So  Norris  took  the  basket  and  said  he 
would  go,  and  prepared  to  go  at  once. 

Then,  as  he  laced  on  heavier  sandals, 
the  monks  who  depended  on  him  came  to 
him  and  asked  him  what  would  become  of 
him,  for  he  might  meet  the  robbers;  but 
he  only  said :  "  God  will  sustain  me."  And 
they  said  he  might  meet  wolves;  yet  he 
said  again :  "  God  will  sustain  me."  Then 
he  went,  and  they  took  leave  of  him  as  a 
man  that  goes  to  his  death;  but  Richard 
and  those  who  held  with  him  were  glad 
at  heart. 

Then  Norris  walked  a  half-mile  in  the 
fields,  and  entered  the  forest.  He  went 
far  under  the  trees  before  he  found  any 
of  the  herb,  and  for  a  long  time  he  found 
little.  But  he  searched  diligently,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  after  hours 
he  had  filled  his  basket  half.  Then  he 
came  to  a  place  where  the  herb  grew 
plentifully,  and  he  worked  quickly,  for 
the  light  was  going,  until  his  basket  was 
full.  But  then  the  light  was  almost 
173 


Sir  Marrok 

gone,  and  when  he  looked  about  him  he 
knew  that  in  the  diligence  of  his  search 
he  had  lost  his  direction,  and  there  was 
no  moon,  and  the  leaves  hid  the  stars,  so 
that  he  could  not  make  out  where  lay  the 
southeast,  where  the  abbey  should  be.  So 
he  knew  that  he  must  stay  there  for  the 
night,  and,  besides,  it  was  ill  walking  on 
the  uneven  ground,  for  he  might  fall  and 
break  a  limb.  But  the  dusk  of  the  forest 
closed  in  on  him,  and  he  said  to  himself: 
"Norris,  art  thou  afraid?" 

He  knew  that  he  was  afraid,  for  he  was 
but  a  monk,  and  had  lived  ever  since  he 
was  a  child  either  in  towns  or  in  walled 
monasteries,  well  guarded.  In  the  things 
of  the  spirit  he  was  fearless,  but  bodily 
dangers  he  had  never  met,  and  there  were 
terrors  in  the  silent  forest  wThich  were 
strange  to  him.  But  he  called  to  mind 
those  saints  who  had  lived  in  deserts  and 
waste  places,  encountering  beasts,  and 
they  had  been  saved.  Then  he  struggled 
with  his  fears,  saying  that  he  was  with 
174 


The  Story  of  Nor  rift 

God,  and  he  knelt  and  prayed,  and  lay 
down  and  slept  peacefully,  like  a  trusting 
child. 

But  of  a  sudden  he  awoke  in  the  night, 
for  he  heard  a  sound.  And  it  was  all 
strange  about  him :  the  whispering  of  the 
trees,  and  the  thick  darkness,  and  nothing 
to  touch  when  he  put  out  his  hand.  Yet 
there  was  a  sound  like  the  moving  of 
feet,  and  then  Norris,  looking,  saw  close 
at  hand  two  spots  of  light,  greenish  —  the 
eyes  of  a  beast. 

So  fresh  was  he  waked  from  sleep,  and 
so  dreadful  was  the  sight  of  the  eyes,  that 
Norris  lost  himself  in  fear.  He  leaped 
up  and  rushed  madly  away,  without 
knowledge  of  what  he  was  doing.  Yet 
he  struck  no  tree,  which  might  have 
stunned  him,  and  better  if  he  had;  and 
the  beast  which  ran  after  him  failed  of 
its  clutch  on  his  gown,  which  would  have 
saved  him.  Then,  as  he  ran,  his  feet  met 
nothing,  and  he  fell  down  with  a  cry  into 
the  darkness,  and  fell  upon  something, 
175 


Sir  Marrok 

and  fell  off  again,  and  struck  again  hard, 
and  knew  nothing  until  the  sun  was  high. 

But  at  noon  on  the  next  day,  behold, 
there  was  ISToms  on  a  little  ledge,  with 
another  ledge  above  him,  and  above  that 
the  level  of  the  forest.  And  in  falling  he 
had  struck  the  first  ledge,  and  stopped  on 
the  second,  which  was  lucky,  for  below 
was  a  wide  quarry,  whence  had  been  taken 
the  stone  for  three  castles  and  for  the 
abbey,  and  it  was  a  great  fall,  so  that  no 
man  could  have  lived,  since  beneath  were 
jagged  points  of  rock.  And  above  was 
first  the  other  ledge,  and  then  the  forest 
level,  as  said  before;  and  there,  walking 
up  and  down,  was  a  huge  wolf,  looking 
down  at  N  orris. 

"  Truly,  crazed  was  I,"  said  N  orris  to 
himself,  for  he  was  not  hurt  and  his  cour 
age  was  better,  "to  have  run  from  the 
beast  last  night.  Better  to  have  been 
eaten.  For  I  cannot  throw  myself  down, 
since  it  is  a  sin  for  a  man  to  kill  himself. 
And  I  cannot  climb  up,  for  the  ledge  is 
176 


The  Story  of  N orris 

too  high  to  reach;  besides,  there  waits 
the  wolf  to  eat  me.  So  I  must  stay  here 
and  starve  to  death." 

So  he  looked  off  across  the  broad  quarry, 
and  saw  the  green  woods  beyond,  and  he 
sighed  for  his  father's  home  in  the  south. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  wolf  above,  and 
the  beast  was  restless,  seeming  to  prepare 
to  leap  down. 

"Now  a  fool  art  thou,  beast,"  said 
Norris.  "  For  thou  canst  eat  me,  but  how 
wilt  thou  get  up  again?  " 

But  the  wolf  leaped  down  to  the  ledge 
above,  which  was  broad ;  then  he  crouched 
for  the  leap  to  the  ledge  below,  which 
was  narrow  and  short.  Anon  he  leaped, 
and  Morris,  with  the  spirit  of  a  man, 
seized  him  by  the  shoulders  as  he  alighted, 
and  strove  to  hurl  him  into  the  quarry. 
But  the  wolf  stood  like  the  very  rock,  and 
looked  up  into  the  face  of  the  monk,  and 
Norris  desisted. 

"  Now  slay  me,  beast,"  he  said,  "  and. 

of  a  truth,  I  forgive  thee  my  death." 
12  177 


Sir  Marrok 

But  the  wolf  rubbed  against  the  man, 
and  then  placed  himself  against  the  wall 
of  rock,  looking  up  at  the  ledge  above. 
Morris  was  astonished.  And  the  wolf 
rubbed  again  upon  him,  and  put  himself 
against  the  rock  once  more.  And  Morris, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  ways  of  beasts, 
thought  that  the  wolf  played  with  him,  as 
the  cat  does  with  a  mouse. 

But  suddenly,  as  the  monk  stood  with 
drawn  from  the  wolf  as  far  as  he  could 
go  on  the  ledge,  he  saw  what  he  could 
do.  With  the  energy  of  hope,  he  strode 
quickly  to  the  wolf,  and  placed  a  foot  on 
his  back,  and  leaped  for  the  ledge  above. 
He  threw  his  arms  across  the  edge,  and 
caught  his  hands  in  a  crevice,  and  pulled 
himself  up,  fearing  the  while  to  feel  the 
grip  of  the  beast  upon  him  to  pull  him 
down.  But  when  he  stood  in  safety  and 
looked  down,  the  wolf  looked  up  at  him 
without  motion,  seeming  to  wait. 

"A    stupid    beast!"    thought    Norris. 
And  he  turned  and  climbed  to  the  ground 
178 


The  Story  of  Nor r is 

above,  for  the  distance  was  not  great. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  wolf  and  said 
good-by,  and  turned- to  go. 

But  the  beast  sent  after  him  such  a  cry 
that  the  monk's  heart  was  troubled,  even 
though  he  continued  to  go  away.  And 
when  he  found  his  basket  of  herbs  he 
stood  awhile,  listening  for  the  wolf  to 
cry  again.  Once  again  the  wolf  cried, 
and  the  call  sounded  human  with  reproach 
and  despair.  Then  the  heart  of  Morris 
was  greatly  touched,  and  he  said: 
"Though  the  beast  kill  me,  I  will  not 
leave  him  there  to  starve."  And  he 
went  back  to  the  quarry. 

Then  the  wolf  was  pleased  to  see  him, 
and  Norris,  leaping  down  to  the  first 
ledge,  took  from  his  waist  the  cord  that 
tied  his  gown.  One  end  he  held  in  his 
hand,  and  one  end  he  threw  down  to  the 
wolf,  who  seized  it.  Then  Morris  drew 
the  rope  up,  the  wolf  helping  with  his 
claws  against  the  rock;  and  it  was  hard 
work  for  the  monk,  for  the  beast  was 
179 


Si?*  Marrok 

heavy.  But  he  gained  the  ledge,  and  the 
Avolf  rubbed  against  Norris  as  if  it  were 
a  dog. 

''Now,"  cried  Norris,  in  surprise,  "I 
believe  the  beast  meant  to  save  me,  from 
the  first!" 

Then  they  clambered  to  the  other  ledge, 
which  was  easy  for  them  both,  and  again 
the  wolf  rubbed  against  the  monk,  seem 
ing  to  thank  him.  But  the  monk,  who 
had  no  more  fear,  caressed  the  head  of 
the  beast,  saying  as  if  it  had  spoken: 
"Nay,  for  rather  should  I  thank  thee." 
Then  together,  the  wolf  guiding  the 
monk,  they  went  through  the  forest,  and 
they  came  out  upon  the  fields  at  the  point 
where  Norris  had  left  them,  nearest  the 
abbey. 

The  wolf  would  come  only  a  short  way 
into  the  fields,  but  returned  again  to  the 
forest;  yet  some  monks  who  were  work 
ing  in  a  garden-patch  saw  him.  And 
Richard  the  prior  bit  his  lip  when  Norris 
returned  again,  for  he  thought  to  have 
180 


The  Story  of  Norris 

been  rid  of  him.  Also  the  abbot  got  well 
of  his  fever.  But  Norris  told  to  the 
monks,  Avhether  bad  or  good,  the  story  of 
the  wolf  —  telling  it  to  the  good  monks  to 
hearten  them,  and  to  the  bad  to  shame 
them  from  their  ways. 

Then  was  told  throughout  Bedegraine 
the  stories  that  are  here  written :  the  story 
of  Andred,  and  the  story  of  Blaise,  and 
the  story  of  the  monk  Norris.  Upon 
these  stories  the  peasants  greatly  heart 
ened  themselves ;  and  the  monks,  learning 
what  had  happened  elsewhere,  began  to 
doubt  of  evil  and  to  hope  of  good.  The 
peasants  worked  the  harder  to  improve 
their  farms,  and  everywhere  they  spoke 
of  the  noble  wolf  of  the  forest.  And  so 
Marrok  began  to  work  good  among  his 
people. 


181 


CHAPTER  XX 

HOW   WAT,    THE    SON   OF   WAT,    TRIED    TO 
TRAP    THE    GREAT    WOLF 

The  shrewdest  woodsman  and  the  best 
That  e'er  drew  bow  or  javelin  cast, 

He  hunted  east,  he  hunted  west, 
And  thought  he  had  the  wolf  at  last. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

THE  Lady  Irma,  by  every  charm  at 
her  command,  tried  to  bewitch  Marrok 
again,  to  his  harm.  But  it  was  in  vain 
that  she  made  incantations  and  recited 
spells,  for  the  wolf  was  not  to  be  reached 
by  such  means.  Then  at  last  she  sent  a 
message  to  Morgan  le  Fay,  asking: 
"What  shall  I  do?  This  man  whom  I 
have  made  a  wolf  troubles  me,  and  I  would 
have  him  killed." 

Morgan    sent    this    answer:    "Except 
some  one  slay  him  outright  by  a  weapon, 
by  two  means  only  can  you  work  him 
182 


Of  Wat  and  his  Trap  for  the  Wolf 

harm.  Gain  sight  of  him,  and  before  he 
flees  pronounce  the  third  word  of  the 
fourth  spell  which  is 'on  the  ninth  page  of 
the  Book.  Then  will  he  fall  in  sleep,  and 
you  can  slay  him.  Or  pluck  three  hairs 
from  his  back,  three  living  hairs,  and 
burn  them  in  the  three  candles,  one  hair 
to  the  red  candle,  and  one  to  the  green, 
and  one  to  the  blue.  Then  shall  you 
melt  the  little  wolf  of  wax,  and  the  man's 
strength  shall  depart  from  him  as  the 
image  melts ;  and  when  it  is  all  melted, 
then  will  he  die.  And  all  this  shall  you  do 
by  the  aid  of  the  spell  which  is  in  the  fourth 
note  on  the  seventh  page  of  the  Book." 
This  book  was  the  Great  Book  of  Necro 
mancy,  and  only  Merlin  and  Morgan  le 
Fay  had  perfect  copies  of  the  book.  And 
Irma  had  only  a  copy  of  the  book  which 
went  to  the  twelfth  page,  but  for  these 
purposes  that  was  enough.  So  she  had 
great  hopes. 

And  she  rode  out  from  the  castle,  along 
the  border  of  the  forest,  with  her  men 
183 


Sir  Marrok 

blowing  horns,  and  all  making  noises  so 
that  the  wolf  should  come.  At  every 
moment  she  was  ready  to  say  the  word 
which  should  throw  Marrok  into  sleep. 
Three  days  did  she  this,  but  saw  the  wolf 
never.  Then  Hugh,  who  was  a  good 
hunter,  looked  within  the  forest,  and  said 
to  the  lady:  "See,  the  wolf  has  been 
watching  us  all  these  three  days,  for  here 
are  his  tracks  in  plenty." 

Irma  was  angry,  for  she  thought:  "Pie 
knows  too  much  to  let  me  see  him,  fear 
ing  spells.  Show  me,"  she  said  to  Hugh, 
"  where  he  has  been." 

Then  Hugh  showed  her  one  place  where 
the  beast  had  been  lying,  watching  them 
comfortably.  And  Irma  stamped  with 
anger  at  his  cunning.  But  when  she 
looked  closer  she  saw  a  single  hair  from 
the  wolf's  body  among  the  briers  where 
he  had  been.  "  Show  me  more ! "  she 
commanded  of  Hugh. 

Hugh  showed  her  more,  and  Irma, 
searching  carefully,  found  two  more  hairs. 
184 


Of  Wat  and  his  Trap  for  the  Wolf 

With  these  she  hastened  to  the  castle, 
and  went  to  the  little  inner  chamber,  and 
lighted  the  three  candles,  and  got  out  the 
book.  Then  she  burned  the  three  hairs, 
one  in  each  candle,  reciting  the  spell,  and 
prepared  to  melt  the  little  waxen  wolf. 

And  then  she  turned  white,  for  she  re 
membered  that  the  letter  of  Morgan  le 
Fay  had  said  "three  living  hairs,"  but 
these  hairs  had  been  dead  hairs.  She  put 
the  little  waxen  wolf  away  again  carefully, 
all  the  time  shaking  with  fright.  For  if 
the  image  were  destroyed  without  this 
spell,  then  would  Marrok  become  a  man 
again. 

"  Now  since  the  wolf  will  never  come 
into  my  sight,  who,"  she  said,  "  will  pluck 
me  three  living  hairs  from  his  back?  " 

Though  she  tried,  she  could  find  no  one, 
and  nothing  served  to  bring  Marrok  to 
harm.  But  one  day  she  heard  of  a  man 
who  was  a  great  trapper  of  beasts,  and 
she  sent  for  him  to  come  to  her. 

This  man  was  Wat,  the  son  of  Wat, 
185 


Sir  Marrok 

who  lived  on  the  lands  of  another  lord, 
beyond  Bedegraine.  He  lived  always  in 
forests,  gaining  his  living  from  the  flesh 
and  skins  of  the  beasts  he  trapped.  And 
he  knew  the  ways  of  all  forest-beasts, 
trapping  them  with  great  skill.  Because 
the  lady  promised  him  much  money,  he 
came  to  her  in  her  castle,  and  she  spoke 
with  him  in  private. 

"  It  is  a  small  matter,  lady,"  he  said, 
"  this  trapping  of  a  wolf.  You  shall  have 
his  skin  in  a  week." 

"  Then  I  will  make  you  rich,"  she  said. 
"  But  he  is  no  common  beast." 

"  Had  he  the  skill  of  a  man,"  said  Wat, 
"  yet  should  I  catch  him." 

"  Listen,"  said  the  lady.  "  It  needs  not 
even  to  trap  him.  Bring  me  three  hairs 
plucked  by  your  own  hand  from  his  back, 
and  I  will  pay  you  the  same  money." 

"  It  were  safer  to  trap  him,"  quoth  Wat. 
And  he  went  out  into  the  forest  to  begin. 

Now  Wat  was  a  clever  man,  and,  for 
all  his  boasting,  a  thoughtful  one.  Soon 
186 


Of  Wat  and  his  Trap  for  the  Wolf 

he  discovered  that  he  had  no  usual  task, 
for  the  week  went  by,  and  all  his  traps 
were  sprung,  and  he  saw  where  the  wolf, 
unseen,  had  followed  him  and  spied  on  all 
that  he  was  doing.  Then  Wat,  seeing 
that  this  would  not  do,  tried  a  trick.  He 
went  out  of  the  forest,  and  walked  a  long 
way  on  the  plain,  and,  entering  the  forest 
again  at  a  different  point,  put  all  his  skill 
into  another  trap.  Then  he  went  away 
into  the  fields  once  more,  and  waited  over 
night. 

Now  Marrok,  thinking  that  the  man 
had  gone,  was  searching  for  food,  and 
came  upon  a  glade  in  the  forest  where  it 
seemed  to  him  there  was  something  that 
had  not  been  there  before.  Yet  it  looked 
natural,  as  if  it  had  grown  there.  And 
Marrok,  not  being  sure,  went  to  the  thing 
that  seemed  a  little  thicket,  for  he  knew 
that  a  rabbit  was  there,  from  the  smell. 

Then  he  saw  how  the  little  trees  seemed 
to  have  grown   almost  in  a  circle,  very 
closely  set,  but  with  an  opening  at  one 
187 


Sir*  Marrok 

side.  Looking  in,  he  saw  the  body  of  a 
rabbit,  but  the  tiny  beast  was  dead.  Now 
Marrok  never  ate  food  but  what  he  himself 
had  killed,  yet  he  wished  to  know  how 
the  rabbit  came  there.  He  put  his  head 
in  at  the  opening,  and  was  about  to  touch 
the  rabbit,  when  he  saw  it  was  fixed  on  a 
piece  of  a  twig,  small  and  stiff.  Then  he 
took  his  head  quickly  out,  and  studied  the 
thicket  again.  Greater  craft  had  he  never 
seen. 

"  Nearly  had  he  caught  me !  "  thought 
Marrok. 

He  went  around  behind  the  semicircle 
of  little  trees,  and  put  in  his  paw,  and 
pulled  at  the  little  twig.  Behold,  a  great 
leaning  log  fell  with  a  crash,  and  other 
logs  upon  it,  and  had  Marrok  been  at  the 
mouth  of  the  trap,  they  would  have  broken 
his  back. 

Then  Marrok   sat  down   and  thought. 

For  he  had  avoided  pitfalls  and  snares  and 

nooses,  and  bows  set  so  that  arrows  should 

shoot  him  as  he  walked  in  a  path;    and 

188 


Of  Wat  and  his  Trap  for  the  Wolf 

now  he  had  avoided  this  trap.  But  he  saw 
that  the  man  would  catch  him  in  the  end. 

"  Now,"  said  Marrok,  "  will  I  set  a  trap 
fdr  him."  And  he  began  to  dig  under 
the  fallen  log  with  his  paws,  scattering 
the  dirt  far  away. 

On  the  next  day  came  Wat  again  to  the 
place,  and  when  he  peered  at  it  cautiously 
from  a  distance,  he  gave  a  shout  of  satis 
faction.  For  the  wolf  lay  under  the 
fallen  log.  Then  Wat  ran  to  him.  He 
saw  as  he  came  near  that  the  wolf  was 
stretched  out  stiff,  as  if  he  had  been  dead 
for  some  hours.  So  the  man  went  to 
him,  without  thought  of  caution. 

Then  the  wolf  rose  up  from  under  the 
log,  and  sprang  upon  the  man,  and  threw 
him  to  the  ground  and  stood  over  him. 
Wat  was  helpless.  He  looked  up  into 
the  wolf's  eyes  as  the  beast  looked  down 
at  him.  But  they  were  not  the  glaring 
eyes  of  an  angry  wolf,  such  as  Wat  had 
seen  many  times;  they  were  rather  like 
those  of  a  man,  sad  and  reproachful,  as  if 
189 


Si r  Marrok 

saying :  "  And  you  would  even  slay  me !  " 
Then  for  a  full  minute  the  two  looked  at 
each  other. 

But  then  the  wolf  released  the  man, 
and  went  away  without  looking  back, 
going  with  great  dignity,  so  that  Wat 
was  awed,  as  if  he  saw  a  king  among 
beasts.  He  lay  where  he  was  until  the 
wolf  had  disappeared  in  the  forest,  and 
not  until  then  did  he  think  of  seizing  his 
bow. 

And  then,  as  he  rose  and  felt  of  himself, 
to  see  if  he  were  really  still  alive,  he  felt 
hairs  upon  his  hands.  He  looked,  and 
they  were  hairs  of  the  wolf,  seven  hairs, 
for  Wat  had  clutched  at  the  beast's  shoul 
ders.  And  he  cried  to  himself  with  joy: 
"  I  shall  earn  the  money,  after  all !  "  So 
he  started  to  return  to  the  castle,  carry 
ing  the  hairs. 

As  he  went  he  thought,  and  he  thought 

in  this  wise.     First  it  was :  "  That  was 

near  death  for  me !  "     And  then  it  was : 

"  But  the  wolf  let  me  go."     And  then  it 

190 


Of  Wat  and  his  Trap  for  the  Wolf 

was :  "  Shall  I  doom  the  good  beast  to 
death?"  For  he  saw  that  the  lady  must 
have  some  witch's  purpose  against  the 
Wolf. 

Then  Wat,  who  was  a  true  man,  cast 
the  hairs  of  the  wolf  upon  the  ground, 
and  he  went  away  out  of  the  forest  at  a 
point  distant  from  the  castle,  going  to  his 
own  place.  When  he  was  almost  at  the 
borders  of  Bedegraine  he  met  a  peasant, 
and  said  to  the  man  (being  bold  because 
he  was  within  sight  of  his  home,  as  men 
often  are):  "  Tell  thy  lady  I  will  not 
serve  her,  because  I  think  she  is  a  witch." 
TsTow  the  peasant  delivered  not  the  mes 
sage,  being  afraid  of  the  anger  of  the 
lady.  But  Wat  went  away,  and  would 
never  go  to  Bedegraine  again. 

So  the  lady  failed  in  this  plan. 


191 


CHAPTEE  XXI 

THE    STORY    OF    THE    S(W    OF    SIR   SIMOX, 
AND    OF    THE    QUE  STING-BE  AST 

King  Pellinore  was  as  noble  knight 

As  e'er  drew  blade  or  sat  at  feast; 
And  oftentimes,  whenas  he  might, 

He  followed  the  quest  of  the  Questing-Beast. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

IT  was  believed  in  Bedegraine  that  the 
son  of  Sir  Simon  was  dead,  but  in 
truth  he  lay  in  the  dungeons  of  Sir  Mor- 
car,  grievously  wounded.  And  he  lay 
there  for  more  than  a  year,  until  his 
wound  had  healed;  but  the  youth  himself 
was  wasting  away  for  lack  of  good  food 
and  the  use  of  his  limbs.  Very  miserably 
he  lay,  until  he  thought  to  try  to  escape. 
Then  hope  came  to  him,  which  is  the  best 
gift  that  is  given  to  man,  as  all  nations 
agree,  from  the  Greeks  to  our  own.  And 
this  poor  prisoner,  when  he  found  a  piece 
192 


The  Story  of  the  Son  of  Sir  Simon 

of  iron  which  had  been  a  spear-point,  took 
such  comfort  in  hope  that  it  was  meat  and 
drink  to  him,  and  h£  began  with  much 
labor  to  dig  his  way  out. 

It  needs  not  be  told  how  he  loosened 
stones  in  his  cell,  and  pierced  through  the 
wall  of  the  castle,  and  swam  the  moat,  and 
escaped  to  the  forest.  But  he  was  seen, 
and  word  was  sent  to  Irma,  and  she  sent 
a  command  to  the  robbers  in  the  forest 
that  they  should  look  everywhere  for  the 
son  of  Sir  Simon,  and  bring  him  again. 

But  the  forest  was  so  great  that  for  a 
long  time  they  found  him  not.  And  he 
lived  but  poorly  on  the  berries  and  herbs 
that  he  found,  and,  being  weak,  made  his 
way  slowly  across  the  forest  on  the  way 
to  the  castle  of  Sir  Roger.  And  he 
missed  his  way,  going  too  far  to  the  north, 
where  the  forest  was  broader,  so  that  he 
thought  that  he  should  never  come  out. 
Then  one  day  as  he  walked  he  saw  a 
great  wolf  lie  in  his  path. 

Now  there  was  no  help  in  running,  for 
13  193 


Sir  Marrok 

the  wolf  could  outrun  him.  And  there  was 
no  hope  in  fighting,  for  the  lad  had  no 
weapon,  since  he  had  lost  his  piece  of 
iron.  So  he  essayed  to  pass  by.  But  the 
wolf  arose  and  went  with  him,  and  the 
youth  allowed  him  to  walk  at  his  side. 
He  looked  down  at  the  neck  of  the  gaunt 
beast,  and  thought:  "Could  I  strangle 
him?  "  But  no  man,  even  though  of  great 
strength,  with  his  hands  alone  could  mas 
ter  that  wolf. 

As  he  went  it  seemed  to  the  youth  that 
the  wolf  was  trying  to  turn  him  more  to 
the  south.  He  said  to  himself:  "The 
beast  will  bring  me  to  his  den  without  the 
trouble  of  carrying  me."  And  he  laughed 
at  his  own  plight,  having  no  more  hope  of 
life;  yet  he  went  with  the  wolf,  because 
there  was  naught  else  to  do. 

But  before  he  had  gone  a  mile  he  heard 
voices  in  the  bushes.  Then  the  wolf  took 
him  by  the  garment  and  tried  to  bring 
him  hastily  in  another  direction.  But  the 
youth  preferred  even  robbers  to  the  beast, 
194 


The  Story  of  the  Son  of  Sir  Simon 

and  tore  himself  away  and  ran  toward  the 
sound,  shouting.  He  met  six  men,  who 
drew  bows  on  the  wolf,  so  that  it  ran 
away.  But  when  the  young  man  tried  to 
thank  the  men  for  his  deliverance,  the} 
laughed  at  him,  telling  him  that  he  would 
best  have  stayed  with  the  wolf,  for  they 
would  bring  him  again  to  Sir  Morcar. 
But  first  they  took  him  where  was  Peter, 
with  others  of  the  band. 

Peter  looked  upon  the  prisoner  evilly. 
"Here," he  said,  "is  the  son  of  the  man 
who  injured  us  much,  and  we  are  to  be 
paid  for  him,  whether  he  be  dead  or  alive." 
He  said  no  more,  but  what  he  said  was 
with  intent,  for  he  knew  that  Sir  Morcar 
preferred  the  youth  dead,  but  feared  to 
kill  him. 

"  Tie  him  to  a  tree,"  he  continued.  "  We 
will  talk  about  this."  So  they  tied  him 
to  a  tree,  and  sat  down  to  consult,  and  the 
son  of  Simon  heard  every  word  that  was 
said,  whether  he  should  live  or  die;  and 
the  wolf ,  listening  in  the  bushes, heard  also. 
195 


Sir  Marrok 

But  Marrok  saw  not  what  he  could  do, 
since  the  robbers  all  were  armed,  and 
many  always  went  with  drawn  swords  or 
knives,  because  he  had  killed  so  many  of 
them  by  surprise.  And  he  could  help  the 
young  man  not  at  all  by  dying  with  him, 
while  his  own  life  was  valuable  to  the 
peasants.  Sadly  Marrok  went  away  a 
little  space,  but  lingered  near,  waiting  to 
hear  them  begin  upon  the  killing  of  the 
youth. 

Then  as  he  lay  he  heard  a  sound,  which 
was  the  merriest  that  had  been  heard  in 
Bedegraine  for  many  a  long  year.  It 
seemed  to  Marrok  that  it  was  the  noise  of 
a  pack  of  hounds  in  full  cry,  many  hounds 
on  the  track  of  a  stag,  following  eagerly, 
and  for  a  moment  he  listened  with  delight. 
But  then  he  asked  himself:  "Who  hunts 
in  Bedegraine,  and  what  doth  he  hunt?  " 
Then  he  saw  something  coming  amid  the 
trees,  and  he  cowered  close. 

For  he  saw  a  beast,  the  strangest  that 
ever  man  saw,  whether  in  field  or  wood. 
196 


The  Story  of  the  Son  of  Si?*  Simon 

Its  head  was  shaped  like  a  serpent's  head, 
and  it  had  the  neck  of  a  serpent.  But  its 
body  was  like  a  leopard's  in  shape,  and  in 
color  it  was  like  a  leopard,  being  spotted. 
And  its  haunches  were  like  those  of  a  lion. 
But  its  feet  were  like  a  stag's,  and  it  was 
of  great  speed,  for  it  came  quickly.  And 
out  of  its  body  (but  the  books  say  not  by 
what  means)  came  the  cry  as  of  dogs,  as 
it  were  thirty  couple  of  hounds  questing 
or  baying  on  a  chase.  And  Marrok  knew 
it  for  the  beast  Glatisant,  which  was 
called  the  Questing-Beast. 

Anon  it  came  near,  ever  making  the 
marvelous  noise,  so  that  the  robbers 
stopped  their  discussion  to  listen.  Then 
it  paused  near  Marrok,  and  when  it  paused 
the  noise  ceased,  and  it  looked  the  way  it 
had  been  coming,  seeming  to  harken. 
Anon  it  ran  on,  and  the  questing  began 
again,  and  was  heard  after  the  beast  had 
departed,  coming  down  the  wind. 

But  Marrok  leaped  from  his  hiding, 
and  ran  back  on  the  track  of  the  beast, 
197 


Sir  Marrok 

thinking:  "The  beast  looked  behind. 
Perhaps  Pellinore  followeth.  Then  there 
may  be  help." 

For  in  those  days,  whenever  there  was 
peace  on  his  marches,  King  Pellinore  left 
his  castle  and  followed  after  the  Que st 
ing-Beast  for  the  sake  of  adventure. 
And  of  Pellinore  need  I  write  here  no 
praise,  for  he  was  the  hardiest  knight  of 
his  generation,  and  it  may  be  doubted  if 
his  own  son  Sir  Lamorak,  or  Launcelot,  or 
Tristram,  the  three  greatest  knights  of 
later  days,  surpassed  him,  who  now  were 
still  but  young  men.  But,  to  quit  talking 
and  go  to  telling,  before  long  Marrok  saw 
a  knight  pricking  after  the  Questing- 
Beast,  and  knew  that  it  was  King  Pelli 
nore. 

Then  Marrok  hid  in  a  thicket  until  the 
horse  was  close,  when  he  leaped  out. 
The  horse  reared,  and  strove  mightily  to 
throw  his  rider;  but  Pellinore  kept  his 
seat  by  fine  force,  until  the  girths  broke. 
Then  the  knight  dismounted  adroitly,  and, 
198 


77*6?  Story  of  the  Son  of  Sir  Simon 

holding  the  beast  by  the  bridle,  strove  to 
calm  it,  having  no  fear  of  the  wolf.  But 
Marrok  leaped  again,-  and  bit  at  the  bridle 
and  severed  it,  both  the  reins,  so  that  the 
horse  was  free  and  ran  away.  And  Pelli- 
nore  was  there  alone  with  the  wolf. 

"Now  a  plague  on  thee,  beast!"  said 
Pellinore,  still  having  no  fear,  for  he  was 
all  in  armor.  "And  you  chase  not  my 
horse,  but  stay  with  me?  Now  what?" 
For  he  perceived  here  an  adventure. 

Now  Pellinore,  as  is  written,  followed 
the  Questing-Beast  not  entirely  with  hope 
of  catching  it,  since  the  beast  was  so 
swift.  But  he  followed  for  the  adven 
tures  which  came  to  him,  since  in  that 
quest  he  had  many  strange  haps,  and 
joyed  in  them,  whether  to  fight  or  to  see 
new  things.  So  Pellinore  looked  at  the 
wolf  which  had  not  acted  like  a  wolf,  and 
he  asked:  "  What  wouldst  thou?  " 

Then  the  wolf,  as  with  understanding, 
ran  a  little  way  and  stood  looking  back 
for  the  knight  to  follow.  So  Pellinore 
199 


Si r  Marrok 

drew  his  sword,  saying,  "I  will  take  the 
adventure."  He  followed  the  wolf,  and 
the  beast  led  him  to  the  glade  where  the 
son  of  Sir  Simon  was  bound,  and  the  rob 
bers  were  ready  to  slay  him.  And  to 
make  a  long  story  short,  Pellinore,  walk 
ing  quietly  with  little  clashing  of  his  armor, 
was  among  the  robbers  before  they  were 
aware,  and  struck  to  right  hand  and  to 
left,  slaying  four.  The  robbers  fled 
nimbly,  having  no  iron  armor,  so  that 
the  knight  could  not  follow;  but  Marrok 
was  on  their  heels,  chasing  them  away. 
Then  when  Marrok  returned,  leaving  the 
robbers  still  fleeing,  having  drawn  to 
gether  in  a  band,  he  found  that  Pellinore 
had  cut  the  bonds  of  the  youth. 

The  youth  begged  the  knight  to  go 
with  him  to  Sir  Eoger's  castle,  for  there 
should  he  be  thanked  properly  and  given 
good  cheer. 

"Nay,"   answered  Pellinore,  "for  the 
direction  is  wrong,  and  I  must  find  my 
horse  to  follow  my  quest.     Yet  yonder 
200 


The  Story  of  the  Son  of  Sir  Simon 

stands  in  the  bushes  the  wolf  who  is  your 
true  deliverer.  Go  thou  with  him."  And 
he  told  how  the  wolf  had  led  him. 

"Now,"  said  the  son  of  Sir  Simon, 
"  this  is  a  true  wonder,  and  I  will  trust 
myself  to  the  beast.  But  tell  me  thy 
name,  that  I  may  be  grateful  to  thee." 

"Nay,"  said  Pellinore;  "grateful  can 
you  be  without  knowledge  of  my  name, 
and  when  on  this  quest  tell  I  my  name  to 


none." 


Then  said  the  youth:  "  At  least  show 
me  thy  face,  that  I  may  remember  it." 

So  Pellinore  showed  his  face,  and  the 
youth  looked  upon  it;  and  it  is  a  pretty 
story  how,  in  another  year,  the  son  of  Sir 
Simon  knew  his  deliverer  again,  when 
they  both  were  in  the  court  of  King 
Arthur.  Yet  until  then  it  was  not  known 
who  had  saved  him.  Then  the  two  parted 
and  went  their  ways,  the  youth  with  the 
wolf,  and  Pellinore  after  his  horse. 

Now  the  Lay  says  that  Pellinore,  fol 
lowing  the  tracks  of  his  steed,  came  to  a 
201 


Sir  Marrok 

strong  castle,  and  saw  how  the  beast  had 
been  met  by  a  man  who  led  it  within. 
Then  he  blew  his  horn  for  the  castle  to 
open,  and  he  was  admitted  to  the  court 
yard,  where  he  saw  a  lady. 

"  Lady,"  said  he,  "  you  have  my  horse." 

"  A  horse  I  have,"  answered  the  lady, 
"which  may  be  thine.  And  you  shall 
have  him  again.  But  if  you  are  a  knight- 
errant  ye  shall  first  do  me  a  service, 
which  is  all  I  shall  require  of  thee." 

But  Pellinore  was  not  pleased  that  she 
should  ask  of  him  a  service  before  ever 
she  had  offered  him  rest  and  food,  which 
always  should  be  the  first  thought  of  a 
lady.  So  he  asked:  "What  is  thy 
service?  " 

"  It  is  to  kill  a  wolf  in  this  forest,"  said 
she. 

He  remembered  the  wolf  he  had  met, 
and  looked  keenly  into  her  face.  Now 
Pellinore  was  a  man  of  wisdom,  of  good 
judgment  as  regarded  persons,  since  he 
had  ruled  long  over  many  people.  And 
202 


The  Storey  of  the  Son  of  Sir  Simon 

never  but  once  made  he  mistake  in  his 
life,  yet  that  mistake  was  grievous.  For 
he  trusted  where  he  Had  done  great  ser 
vice,  and  met  ingratitude,  even  as  had 
Marrok;  yet  his  misfortune  was  greater 
than  Marrok' s,  since  it  brought  death. 
But  that  story  is  to  be  read  in  another 
book.  King  Pellinore  looked  long  at  the 
Lady  Irma,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  evil. 

"  Lady,"  quoth  he,  "  no  service  will  I  do 
you,  but  give  you  me  my  horse." 

"Now,"  she  cried,  "your  horse  shall 
you  not  have,  but  you  shall  abide  here." 
She  signed  to  her  men,  and  the  portcullis 
fell,  so  that  Pellinore  was  shut  within  the 
castle.  Yet  he  cared  no  whit. 

"  Lady,"  said  he,  "  loath  am  I  to  threaten 
a  woman,  but  I  take  no  force.  And  I 
warrant  you  I  am  hard  to  deal  with,  so 
that  however  great  be  the  number  of  your 
men,  this  castle  is  mine  an  I  list.  But 
give  me  my  horse,  and  I  depart  without 
harm." 

The  lady  looked  upon  his  armor,  and 
203 


Sir  Marrok 

saw  how  it  had  stood  great  strokes,  for  he 
had  fought  much.  And  arrows  could  not 
pierce  that  steel.  She  thought:  "Better 
to  let  him  go  than  to  lose  some  of  my 
men ;  for  he  is  great  in  size,  and  bears  his 
armor  as  if  it  were  silken  clothes."  So 
then  she  said :  "  Take  thy  horse,  uncourtly 
knight,  and  depart." 

So  he  took  his  horse  and  mounted  him, 
without  saddle  or  bridle  as  the  beast  was, 
and  when  the  portcullis  was  raised  he 
guided  the  horse  by  the  pressure  of  his 
knees  out  of  the  castle.  And  in  the  vil 
lage  he  got  saddle  and  reins,  and  paid  the 
men  well,  giving  the  first  gold  that  Bede- 
graine  had  seen  for  many  a  year.  Then 
he  rode  again  into  the  forest,  and  found 
the  track  of  the  Questing-Beast,  and  fol 
lowed  it  far  away  from  Bedegraine. 

But  Marrok  led  the  son  of  Sir  Simon 
to  the  castle  of  Sir  Roger,  where  the 
youth  was  welcomed  heartily.  And  Sir 
Roger  and  the  Lady  Agnes  went  quickly 
into  the  forest  to  call  the  wolf,  who  had 
204 


The  Story  of  the  Son  of  Sir  Simon 

departed;  but,  though  he  heard  them, he 
would  not  come,  since  in  the  forest  was 
his  task.  Then  the 'news  went  around 
the  country;  and  when  Irma  and  \  cicar 
heard  that  the  son  of  Sir  Simon  had  es 
caped,  they  were  furious,  but  the  peasants 
of  Sir  Simon  were  joyful.  And  all  began 
to  take  hope  of  the  good  day  which  it 
seemed  soon  must  come. 


205 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HOW  BENNET  AND  FATHER  JOHN  WERE 
DRIVEN  FROM  THEIR  HOMES 

Though  Bennet  hunted  as  he  could, 
Old  was  he  now,  and  maimed  beside ; 

And  there,  for  very  lack  of  food, 
In  Bedegraine  they  might  have  died. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

T 1 1HERE  came  to  the  Lady  Irma  the 
-L    news  that  the  peasants  were   more 
prosperous.     She   set   about   to  find  the 
reason. 

In  fact,  the  peasants  were  fatter  and 
more  content.  I^ow  their  dependence,  as 
in  the  days  of  Marrok,  was  their  swine 
and  their  crops. 

"  Truly,  madam,"  said  Hugh,  "  in 
hunting  I  have  seen  larger  herds  of  the 
villains'  swine,  and  the  men  are  beginning 
to  cut  down  the  saplings  that  were  spring 
ing  in  their  fallow  land." 
206 


Of  Bennet,  Father  John,  and  the  Wolf 

"  Send  out,"  quoth  the  lady,  "  and  catch 
me  a  peasant." 

Presently  one  was  brought  in,  trembling 
properly  at  a  horse's  tail,  a  rope  around 
his  neck. 

"  Hark  ye,  villain,"  said  the  lady.  "  Tell 
me  of  thy  fellows.  How  is  it  that  ye 
have  more  swine?" 

"Lady,"  answered  the  fellow,  in  fear, 
"  there  are  fewer  wolves  in  the  forest." 

"  What,"  she  asked,  "  hath  that  to  do 
with  thy  swine?" 

"Two  years  agone,"  he  said,  "I  had  but 
two.  Last  year  but  three  young  swine 
grew  up.  But  this  year  I  have  raised  in 
safety  two  great  litters  —  sixteen  in  all." 

"And  that  is  because  there  are  few 
wolves?" 

"Ay.  For  this  twelvemonth,  lady, 
have  I  seen  not  one,  save  the  great  gray 
wolf  that  doth  no  harm." 

"  Go,"  said  the  lady.     "  See  that  thou 
bringest,  within  the  week,  six  of  thy  young 
porkers,  killed  and  dressed." 
207 


Sir  Marrok 

The  peasant  went,  wringing  his  hands. 
The  lady  caught  others,  and  learned  more 
things.  There  were  surely  no  wolves  to 
do  harm.  Peter  the  Robber  said  so  also. 
The  peasants  even  dared  to  pasture  their 
milch-cows,  most  valuable  of  their  belong 
ings,  on  the  fine  herbage  that  grew  at  the 
edge  of  the  forest. 

''  Thus  the  COWTS  are  growing  fat, 
and  give  more  milk,  and  the  calves  are 
stronger,"  said  Peter.  "  The  peasants 
are  becoming  sturdier,  with  more  milk  and 
meat.  This  also  have  I  learned,  lady: 
't  is  Bennet  and  Father  John  that  have 
set  the  peasants  at  saving  their  old  lands. 
This  spring  and  summer  at  least  a  hun 
dred  of  the  old  acres  are  again  under 
the  plow." 

"  And  the  great  gray  wolf?  "  asked  the 
lady,  looking  into  Peter's  eyes. 

Peter  became  confused.  "  The  wolf 
—  my  lady — we  have  killed  him  not  yet." 

"So,"  sneered  Irma;  "my  valiant  rob 
bers  are  af eard !  " 

208 


Of  Bennet,  Father  John,  and  the  Wolf 

"My  lady,"  he  cried,  "surely  it  is  no 
beast.  The  wolf  is  human.  We  dare  go 
about  only  by  threes.  With  two  it  is  not 
safe.  The  wolf  killeth  one,  and  escapes 
before  the  other  can  raise  his  bow." 

"  Not  an  arrow  in  him  yet?  " 

"Not  one." 

"Nay,"  cried  the  lady,  in  anger,  "  but  I 
see  ye  are  all  cowards.  Hark  ye.  Hunt 
him  the  more !  Follow  him !  Track  him ! 
Give  him  no  sleep !  " 

"  But  he  is  swifter  than  a  horse,"  mut 
tered  Peter.  "He  leaveth  no  trail,  and 
none  know  his  lair." 

"Find  it,"  said  the  lady.  "Begone, 
and  act.  And  you,"  quoth  she,  turning 
to  Hugh,  "  take  archers  and  go  to  the 
village.  Rout  me  that  old  villain  Bennet 
from  his  daughter's  house,  where  he  liveth 
now  these  seven  year.  Take  Father  John 
from  his  manse  by  the  church.  Too  long 
have  these  men  comforted  and  counseled 
the  peasants.  Bid  them  leave  my  lands. 
Proclaim  it  death  for  any  to  harbor  them. 
14  209 


Sir  Mar 7* ok 

They  work  against  me  secretly.  I  will 
be  rid  of  them." 

And  so  that  evening,  while  within  Bede- 
graine  Peter  and  his  men  again  laid  their 
heads  together  to  catch  the  gray  wolf,  in 
the  village  women  wept,  and  children 
wailed,  and  men  knitted  brows  and 
clenched  their  fists.  For  Father  John 
and  Bennet  were  driven  away,  and  had 
no  place  to  go  except  into  the  forest. 

They  found  the  house  of  the  warlock 
of  the  Druids'  Ring,  and  made  it  habit 
able  for  themselves.  On  the  heathen 
stones  Father  John  hourly  offered  prayer. 
But  old  Bennet,  though  he  hunted  long, 
brought  in  no  food. 

c  There  is  game  in  plenty,"  he  grum 
bled.  It  was  the  third  day,  and  both 
were  faint  with  hunger.  "  But  I  cannot 
shoot  as  I  used.  This  arm,  that  I  injured 
in  saving  the  Lady'Irma  from  the  bear, 
permits  me  not  to  draw  the  bow." 

"  It  is  well,"  said  Father  John.  "  The 
Lord,  who  fed  his  prophet  by  his  ravens, 
210 


\ 

\ 


a 

'-••V 


',.! 


*. 


;XK 


Of  Bennet,  Father  John,  and  the  Wolf 

will  feed  us  also.     Let  us   ask  him  for 
help." 

But  there,  as  he  turned  to  the  altar, 
stood  a  great  gray  wolf  and  looked  at 
them. 

Bennet  put  hand  to  knife. 

"  Stir  not,"  said  the  priest.  "  'T  is  the 
wolf  of  which  the  peasants  tell.  He  will 
not  harm  us."  And  he  knelt.  But  as 
Father  John  prayed,  Bennet  watched  the 
wolf. 

"  O  Lord,"  he  said,  "  whose  land  this 
is,  we  pray  thee,  take  us  in  thy  care. 
And  first,  we  pray  thee,  send  Marrok,  our 
beloved  master,  to  rule  over  us  again." 

At  these  words  the  wolf  trembled. 

"  Or,  if  this  cannot  be,  bring  us  the  boy 
Walter,  to  take  his  father's  place,  and  grow 
into  a  man,  and  rule  over  us.  Yet,  since 
we  have  not  seen  him  from  that  day  when 
he  was  driven  forth,  a  child,  bound  upon  a 
horse's  back,  here  into  the  wintry  forest  — 
grant  us,  if  he  be  dead,  to  find  his  bones, 
that  we  may  give  them  Christian  burial." 
213 


Sir  Marrok 

At  this  the  wolf  dropped  his  head,  and 
great  tears  rolled  from  his  eyes  and  fell 
upon  the  sod. 

"  But  if  we  ask  too  much,"  said  Father 
John,  "  stretch  forth  at  least  thy  hand 
over  these  poor  people,  and  lift  them  up. 
Give  again  swine  and  cattle,  crops  and 
fruit.  And  soften  the  heart  of  the  lady 
of  the  castle,  that  her  cruelties  may 
cease." 

The  wolf  gritted  his  teeth,  his  bristles 
rose,  and  he  looked  so  fierce  that  the 
priest  almost  feared  to  proceed.  With 
a  weaker  voice  he  concluded: 

"And  send  food,  we  pray  thee,  to  us 
thy  two  servants,  who  starve  here  help 
less." 

"Thank  Heaven,"  cried  Bennet,  "the 
wolf  is  gone." 

He  had  indeed  vanished  in  the  bushes. 
But  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  the  thicket 
cracked,  and  lo,  there  was  the  wolf  again, 
and  over  his  back  was  a  fresh-killed  fawn. 
This  he  dropped  before  the  friar. 
214 


Of  Bennet,  Father  John,  and  the  Wolf 

"Praised  be  the  Lord,"  cried  Father 
John,  "who  hath  sent  us  a  helper!  Make 
fire,  Bennet,  and  cook  the  meat." 

"  If  only  the  beast  spring  not  upon  my 
back,"  grumbled  Bennet.  And  he  made 
the  fire,  ever  ready  to  clap  his  hand  upon 
his  weapon.  But  the  wolf  lay  and 
watched,  and  when  the  crisp  meat  was 
done  he  drew  near,  as  if  himself  ready 
to  eat. 

"Mayhap   he  will   partake,"    said   the- 
priest,   and  he  laid   a  collop  before  the 
wolf.     "  Look ;   he  eateth,   and   daintily, 
unlike  an  animal." 

"He  seemeth  to  like  cooked  food," 
whispered  Bennet — which  was  true. 

Then  daily  the  wolf  brought  food  to 
the  two  men,  and  they  lived  in  comfort. 
But  also  he  searched  the  forest  from  end 
to  end  and  from  side  to  side ;  yet  never 
found  he,  whether  in  thicket  or  in  grove, 
bones  of  horse  or  boy. 


215 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HOW   ANSELM   FELL    SICK   UNTO   DEATH, 

ANT>   WHO   BECAME   ABBOT    IN 

HIS    STEAD 

"  Now  Richard  to  the  west  hath  hied, 

And  Anselm  he  is  like  to  dee. 
Ride,  Peter,  ride  !  "  the  lady  cried, 
"And  bring  the  prior  speedily." 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

THE  peasants  of  Bedegraine  continued 
to  prosper.  The  fame  of  the  gray 
wolf  spread.  In  irritation  the  lady  op 
pressed  the  peasants  more,  and  system 
atized  the  hunt  for  the  wolf;  but  to  no 
purpose. 

For  the  swine  and  cattle  multiplied, 
and  the  crops  grew  plentiful.  And  when 
men  beat  the  forest  for  the  wolf,  he  was 
not  to  be  found.  When  packs  of  hounds 
were  brought  and  put  upon  his  trail,  he 
fled  from  them,  and,  turning,  killed  the 
216 


How  Anselm  Fell  Sick  unto  Death 

first  pursuer,  till  many  were  slain — which 
has  been  the  method  of  one  against  many 
since  the  time  of  the  Horatii.  So,  when 
the  lady  could  find  no  more  hounds,  she 
ceased  hunting  in  this  manner. 

But  the  news  came  to  her  ears  that  the 
wolf  abode  with  Bennet  and  Father  John, 
and  fed  them  daily;  also  that  the  sanctity 
of  the  priest  became  multiplied  in  the  eyes 
of  the  peasants,  and  they  reverenced  him 
greatly.  Then  the  lady  laid  a  plan  to 
catch  the  wolf.  Yet,  when  the  men  of 
Peter's  band  closed  in  one  morn  around 
the  Druids'  King,  the  wolf  slipped  out 
through  a  gap  in  their  line  and,  turning 
on  their  backs,  slew  three. 

Now,  in  the  abbey  of  Bedegraine,  the 
godliness  of  Father  John  had  long  since 
made  him  friends,  and  he  had  been  a  great 
help  to  Norris  and  those  other  monks  who 
had  striven  to  keep  to  the  old  way's  of 
godliness.  Moreover,  when  they  knew 
that  he  abode  in  the  forest  with  the  wolf, 
they  took  still  more  of  courage.  Surely 
217 


Sir  Marrok 

this  friar  was  a  saintly  man,  upon  whom 
showed  the  special  favor  of  God;  and 
were  he,  not  Anselm,  abbot  of  the  mon 
astery,  then  would  all  things  be  well. 
Though  they  saw  not  how  this  thing  could 
come  about,  they  resolved  to  imitate 
Father  John,  and  to  wait,  and  watch, 
and  pray. 

One  day  came  to  the  Lady  Irma  a  monk 
in  haste.  "  My  lady,  the  abbot  lies  at  the 
point  of  death,  and  the  prior  is  far  away." 

"  What  matters  that  to  me?  " 

"  This:  that  the  lesser  monks  are  mur 
muring.  Unless  the  prior  can  be  brought 
back  before  the  abbot  dies,  they  will  make 
Father  John  abbot,  and  then  —  " 

And  then  farewell  many  good  things! 
That  was  the  monk's  thought.  But  the 
lady  saw  further.  She  frowned.  "  Send 
for  Peter  the  Bobber!" 

Peter  came,  with  sword  and  bow  and 
dagger,  and  a  hunted  light  in  his  eyes. 

"Nay,  Peter,"  quoth  the  lady;  "thou 
lookest  strange." 

218 


How  Anselm  Fell  Sick  unto  Death 

"  Strange  I  feel,  and  strange  feel  we 
all,  not  knowing  whom  the  wolf  will  take 
next." 

"  A  pest  on  him ! "  cried  the  lady,  and 
wished  it  true.  "But,  Peter,"  said  the 
lady,  "  here  is  a  letter,  which  take  thou  to 
the  Prior  Richard.  Three  days  ago  went 
he  to  the  west.  Seek  him  out  and  bring 
him  back." 

"  Nay,"  said  Peter.  "  Give  me  a  horse. 
Afoot  will  I  not  travel  without  my  fel 
lows." 

The  lady  commanded  to  give  him  a 
horse,  and  Peter  rode  forth  into  Bede- 
graine  and  took  the  forest  road.  His 
horse  was  fresh  and  fleet,  he  was  well 
armed.  Wayside  flowers  bloomed  along 
the  ancient  turfy  road,  and  the  great  trees 
of  the  forest  were  calm.  Bright  shone 
the  sun,  yet  Peter's  mood  was  dark  and 
fearsome.  He  scanned  the  forest  on 
either  hand,  and  urged  his  horse  that  he 
might  quickly  pass  the  three  leagues  of 
the  forest.  And  though  he  was  so  high 
219 


Sir  Marrok 

on  his  horse,  he  rode  with  knife  in  hand, 
to  defend  his  life. 

But  nothing  showed  among  the  trees 
except  the  dun  deer.  And  though  the 
bright  sun,  the  warm  air,  the  beauties  of 
the  forest,  were  nothing  to  Peter,  he  was 
a  stout  carl,  and  at  last  gained  heart. 
When  but  a  league  of  the  road  was  left, 
he  slipped  his  knife  into  its  sheath. 
"  Ho !  "  he  said,  "  I  meet  not  the  gray  wolf 
to-day." 

Then  as  he  rode  he  hummed  a  catch,  to 
prove  his  courage.  And  he  sat  easier  on 
his  horse,  cocked  his  bonnet,  and  thought 
of  his  reward,  for  the  lady  had  promised 
many  crowns.  But  out  of  a  thicket  shot 
suddenly  the  great  gray  wolf,  and  sprang 
on  the  horse's  croup. 

Peter  screamed,  felt  for  his  knife,  and 
struck  with  his  spurs.  The  wolf  seized 
him  by  the  neck  from  behind;  rearing, 
the  horse  flung  them  both  to  the  ground. 
The  wolf  leaped  up,  but  Peter,  lay  still. 
His  neck  was  broken. 
220 


How  Ansclm  Fell  Sick  unto  Death 

Then  the  wolf,  pawing  and  nuzzling, 
drew  the  letter  out  of  Peter's  doublet, 
for  he  knew  that  not  without  purpose  did 
Peter  ride  on  horseback.  He  broke  the 
seal  and  spread  the  letter  out,  and  stood 
with  wrinkled  forehead,  scanning  the 
lines.  Then  he  took  the  parchment  in  his 
mouth  and  sped  away  among  the  trees. 

He  came  to  where  Father  John  and 
Bennet  had  celebrated  their  daily  mass. 
At  the  priest's  feet  he  laid  the  letter. 
The  priest  read  the  screed: 

To  PRIOR  EICHARD  :  Why  wanderest  thou 
in  the  west?  Anselm  the  abbot  lieth  on  his 
death-bed,  and  the  monks  murmur.  If  thou  re- 
turnest  not  in  haste,  not  thou  will  be  abbot,  but 
the  hedge-priest,  Father  John,  who  with  his 
werewolf  mightily  impresseth  all  here  in  Bede- 
graine.  And  if  that  happeneth  thou  wilt  not 
even  be  prior.  Return,  therefore,  and  guard  thy 
interests  and  mine.  This  by  the  hands  of  Peter 
the  Robber,  from  thy  lady  IRMA. 

Then  Father  John  arose,  and  took  his 
staff  and  scrip,  and  said:    "I  go  to  the 
223 


Si r  Marrok 

abbey.  Bennet,  lead  thou  me  by  the 
straightest  way." 

But  Bennet  cried:  "The  way  lies  past 
the  castle!" 

Then  Father  John,  with  ready  wit, 
turned  to  the  wolf  and  said:  "O  noble 
wolf,  much  hast  thou  done  for  this  land. 
Canst  thou  now  not  lead  us  quickly  to  the 
abbey?" 

The  wolf,  at  such  a  pace  that  the  priest 
and  Bennet  might  follow,  led  them 
through  the  forest.  By  devious  ways  he 
brought  them,  until  at  last,  when  they  left 
the  shelter  of  the  trees,  the  abbey  towers 
were  close  in  front.  Bennet  thundered 
at  the  gate  and  demanded  admittance. 

"But  who  are  ye?"  asked  the  warder. 
"  Our  abbot  lieth  dying,  and  we  are  all  in 
fear." 

"I  am  Father  John,"  said  the  priest, 
"  and  I  come  to  shrive  the  abbot." 

When  that  was  heard  within  the  abbey, 
monks  came  running.  The  gate  was 
opened,  and  Bennet  and  the  father  went 
224 


How  Anselm  Fell  Sick  unto  Death 

in.  But  Marrok  watched  outside,  and 
would  not  enter. 

On  his  bed  lay  Ariselm  the  abbot,  sick 
to  death.  Had  Prior  Richard  been  there, 
no  thought  of  repentance  would  have 
stirred  the  abbot's  mind.  But  lying  in 
his  cell  alone,  thinking  of  his  past  life, 
fear  came  to  him,  for  he  knew  he  had 
been  remiss  in  many  things.  He  had 
heard  of  Father  John,  and  he  welcomed 
him.  And  Father  John,  standing  by  the 
bed,  confessed  the  abbot,  and  shrived  him. 
Then  the  abbot  commanded  the  monks  to 
come  to  the  door  of  his  cell.  As  they 
stood  in  the  passage  outside,  he  com 
manded  them  that  they  should  immedi 
ately  make  Father  John  abbot  in  his 
place.  Then  he  begged  for  their  prayers, 
and  died. 

Anon  in  full  chapter  —  all  being  there 
but  the  Prior  Richard  and  the  monk  that 
had  gone  to  the  lady  —  they  elected 
Father  John  abbot,  and  installed  him  in 
the  abbot's  chair.  And  they  made  Norris 
15  225 


Sir  Marrok 

prior,  but  cast  Richard  out  from  the 
brotherhood.  When  this  was  done,  the 
new  abbot  went  to  the  gate,  and  the  wolf 
started  out  of  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
where  he  had  watched. 

"O  wolf,"  said  Father  John,  "now 
am  I  abbot,  thanks  to  thee.  Come  now 
within  these  walls,  and  spend  at  rest  the 
remainder  of  thy  days." 

But  the  wolf,  having  heard  this  news, 
went  away.  He  returned  to  Bedegraine, 
knowing  that  Peter's  men,  so  soon  as  they 
found  the  body,  would  be  in  confusion. 
They  were  so  already.  .  Fright  had  fallen 
on  them.  By  twos  and  threes  they  fled 
away,  nor  stopped  for  their  treasure. 
And  the  wolf  was  content  to  scare  away 
those  that  would  have  sought  refuge  in 
the  castle.  None  did  he  slay,  for  he  was 
weary  of  killing. 

Thus  was  Bedegraine  cleared  of  out 
laws,  and  we  hear  of  no  more  until  the 
time   of   Robin   Hood;    but   in   his   time 
Bedegraine  was  called  Sherwood. 
226 


How  Anselm  Fell  Sick  unto  Death 

When  the  Lady  Irma  heard  the  news, 
she  laughed  bitterly,  and  hid  her  chagrin 
with  scornful  words.  Nevertheless  she 
knew  that  two  of  the  props  of  her  strength 
were  gone. 

And  Bennet,  stoutly  refusing  to  be 
made  priest,  dwelt  in  the  abbey  and  be 
came  overseer  of  the  lands.  Soon  as  he 
might,  he  began  to  train  the  peasants  to 
arms,  meaning  some  day  to  take  revenge 
on  the  lady.  Had  she  known  of  it  she 
would  have  laughed,  for  in  the  castle  she 
felt  secure. 


227 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE    HUNTING    OF    SIR    MARROK 

Sir  Tristram  was  a  well-versed,  knight 

In  harping  and  in  minstrelsy; 
In  hunting  took  he  great  delight, 

And  best  of  all  the  hounds  had  he. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

NOW  let  us  understand  that  time 
passed  by,  and  many  things  hap 
pened  in  the  land  of  Britain.  For  there 
came  into  fame  the  young  knights :  first, 
Pellinore's  son  Sir  Lamorak,  and  then 
Sir  Launcelot,  and  finally  Sir  Tristram, 
of  whom  this  chapter  tells.  Sir  Tristram 
was  of  Lyonesse;  and  he  was  nephew  of 
Mark,  King  of  Cornwall.  And  he  was  a 
gentle,  joyous  knight,  and  loved  singing 
and  harping;  also  he  was  the  greatest 
hunter  that  had  ever  lived,  and  he  in 
vented  all  the  terms  of  the  chase,  and 
all  blasts  and  horn-blowing:  these  Sir 
228 


The  Hunting  of  Si?*  Marrok 

Tristram  made.  And  once  Marrok  had 
known  Tristram  and  befriended  him,  as 
an  older  knight  befriends  a  younger ;  and 
they  two  had  sworn  never  to  fight  each 
other. 

And  it  came  into  the  fifth  year  that 
Marrok  was  a  wolf,  while  ever  the  lady 
sought  to  destroy  him.  But  her  spells 
were  vain,  and  he  still  lived  in  the  forest, 
while  year  by  year  the  peasants  grew 
more  prosperous  and  the  land  was  richer. 
But  the  lady  hated  the  thrift  of  the  peas 
ants,  and  more  and  more  she  feared  the 
wolf.  Night  and  day  she  planned  how 
to  be  rid  of  him.  Then  one  day  seemed 
promised  her  her  heart's  desire. 

A  knight  came  riding  to  the  castle. 
He  was  tall  and  fair,  with  flowing  locks 
and  open,  cheerful  face.  A  squire  and 
two  servants  attended  him,  with  horses 
and  dogs.  Six  dogs  there  were,  great 
hounds  for  the  chase,  and  with  them  two 
little  bratchets.  On  his  shield  the  knight 
bore  the  arms  of  Cornwall. 
229 


Sir  Marrok 

The  lady  met  him  in  the  court  and  bade 
him  welcome.  The  servants  she  sent  to 
the  servants'  hall;  the  knight  she  led  to 
her  own  table,  where  she  charmed  him 
with  her  hospitality  and  her  conversation. 
At  last  she  asked  him  his  name  — "  if  you 
are  under  no  vow  to  conceal  it,"  she  said, 
for  to  that  all  knights  were  much  given. 

"Lady,"  he  said,  "my  name  is  Sir 
Tristram  of  Lyonesse." 

"Nay,"  she  cried,  "  and  is  it  true?  See 
I  in  my  hall  the  noble  Tristram,  greatest 
of  the  knights  of  Britain?  " 

"  My  lady,"  he  said,  "  there  are  better 
knights  than  I.  Launcelot,  and  Sir  Lam- 
orak— " 

"Forgive  me,  sir,"  she  said.  "Your 
modesty  is  beyond  praise,  but  also  your 
worth.  Known  are  you  everywhere  for 
a  noble  knight,  and  a  sweet  singer,  and 
the  greatest  of  all  hunters.  Known  is 
your  fight  against  Sir  Marhaus  of  Ireland, 
and  your  many  valiant  deeds." 

And  she  flattered  him  to  his  face,  but 
230 


The  Hunting  of  Sir  Marrok 

so  sweetly  that  Sir  Tristram  was  pleased. 
Then  she  persuaded  him  to  sing,  and  sat 
as  rapt  in  delight,  but  really  she  was 
thinking  deeply.  When  he  had  finished, 
she  sighed. 

"Lady,"  he  asked,  "why  sigh  you?" 

"  Ah,  Sir  Tristram,"  she  answered,  "thy 
harping  and  singing  were  so  sweet  that 
I  had  forgotten  my  troubles.  When 
you  finished  I  remembered  them  again. 
Therefore  did  I  sigh." 

"  Truly,  lady,"  he  responded,  "  if  you 
have  troubles,  tell  them  to  me;  for  the 
heart  becomes  lighter  by  confidence." 

Irma  had  put  Gertrude  into  a .  deep 
sleep  in  her  chamber,  and  she  now  sent 
Agatha  to  busy  the  squire  and  Hugh 
with  pleasant  chat.  Then,  knowing  she 
could  speak  freely,  she  began  her  tale  to 
Sir  Tristram. 

"Saw  ye,"  she  said,  "my  lands  as  ye 
rode  hither?  What  thinkest  thou  of 
them?" 

"  'T  is  a  rich  land,"  he  said,  "  with 
231 


Sir  Mar r ok 

prosperous   and  happy  peasants.     Lady, 
to  them  thou  art  a  benefactress." 

Irma  sighed.  "  Truly  I  seek  to  be  to 
them  as  was  my  dead  lord  "  (but  she  men 
tioned  not  Marrok's  name)  ;  "  and  my 
peasants  have  been  happy.  But  lately 
has  come  a  plague  into  my  land  that  is 
beginning  to  waste  our  substance." 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked.  For  Tristram 
was  a  noble  knight,  and,  as  Irma  meant, 
he  started  at  the  hope  of  adventure. 

"These  five  years,"  she  said,  "hath 
there  lived  a  wolf  in  my  forest.  He 
killeth  swine  and  cattle;  he  seizeth  chil 
dren;  and  now  hath  it  come  to  such  a 
pass  that  two  must  work  always  in  the 
field  together,  for  one  man  dares  not  work 
alone." 

Then  Tristram  laughed  a  mighty  laugh. 
"Lady,  is  that  all?  Ere  to-morrow's  sun 
is  set,  lay  I  this  wolf  dead." 

"How?"  she  asked.    "  With  thy  dogs  ?" 

"  With  my  dogs  and  my  fleet  steed,  and 
my  hunting- spear." 

232 


The  Hunting  of  Sir  Marrok 

"But  the  wolf  is  strong,  and  pulls 
down  one  by  one  the  dogs  that  pursue 
him." 

"  Yet  will  he  not  pull  down  my  hounds ; 
and  if  he  should,  he  will  not  escape  my 
bratchets." 

The  lady's  eyes  sparkled.  "  Oh,  Sir 
Tristram,  if  thou  deliverest  this  land,  my 
people  will  bless  thee,  and  I  more  than 
they.  A  great  pest  and  unbearable  has 
this  wolf  become." 

"  Lady,"  he  said,  "  fear  not.  But  now 
let  me  to  rest,  for  I  have  traveled  far. 
And  in  the  morning  will  I  hunt  the  wolf." 

The  lady  gave  orders  that  the  knight 
should  be  conducted  to  his  chamber,  and 
that  his  squire  and  men  should  be  well 
served.  And  she  and  Agatha  and  Hugh 
rejoiced  together,  since  Tristram  was  such 
a  mighty  hunter. 

In  the  morning  Tristram  mounted  his 

steed    at  the  castle   gate;     and  Gouver- 

vail  his   squire   mounted  his,  and  Hugh, 

who   would   go   too,  mounted  his.     The 

233 


Sir  Mar j* ok 

dogs  were  loosed,  eager  for  the  chase, 
and  all  moved  into  the  forest.  Before 
long  the  lady,  listening,  heard  Sir  Tris 
tram's  horn,  and  knew  that  they  had 
found  the  scent. 

But  Marrok,  couched  in  the  forest, 
heard  the  horn,  and  groaned.  "That," 
said  he,  "is  the  horn  of  Sir  Tristram." 
For  since  no  one  in  the  world  could  blow 
the  horn  so  well  as  the  knight  of  Lyon- 
esse,  Marrok  knew  the  blast.  And  he 
groaned  again,  for  he  believed  his  end 
had  come. 

But  he  ran  a  good  race,  doing  as  he 
had  done  before.  For  the  great  hounds 
of  Sir  Tristram,  the  fleetest  and  the  strong 
est  in  all  Britain,  one  by  one  he  slew. 
The  swiftest  first,  the  slowest  last,  one  by 
one  they  lay  dead.  And  Marrok  thought 
for  one  instant:  "Perhaps  now  I  am 
free." 

Then  he  heard  the  baying  of  the 
bratchets,  which  so  long  as  the  hounds 
bayed  were  silent,  but  now  gave  tongue. 
234 


The  Hunting  of  Sir  Marrok 

And  he  knew  that  against  bratchets  he 
could  do  nothing,  for  they  were  small 
dogs  and  slight,  quick  to  turn  and  dodge, 
and  he  could  never  take  them.  He  stood 
a  moment  in  despair,  and  they  came  upon 
him  among  the  trees,  and  waited  and 
barked.  Then  Marrok  saw  the  fair-haired 
knight  coming  upon  his  white  horse,  and 
turned  and  ran. 

Minstrel  and  gleeman  chanted  of  that 
chase  for  full  four  hundred  years.  North 
ward  first  fled  Marrok,  through  the  forest, 
till  he  reached  its  border.  Then  he  turned 
west,  and  through  the  roughest  country 
he  led  his  pursuers.  Then  he  ran  south, 
then  east,  till  the  fair  towers  of  Sir  Roger 
of  the  Rock  shone  upon  his  sight.  For  a 
moment  he  was  minded  to  flee  there  for 
protection.  But  the  bratchets  and  the 
knight  came  upon  him, —  all  else  were  left 
behind, — and  Marrok  fled  south  once  more. 

Then  in  despair  he  was  minded  to  stay 
in  the  bushes  and  wait  the  knight,  and 
attack  him.  For  ever,  whether  through 
235 


Sir  Marrok 

swamp  or  thicket,  or  over  knoll,  or  among 
rocks,  Sir  Tristram  followed  close.  But 
Marrok  could  not  slay  his  friend,  and  he 
ran  on.  His  heart  grew  heavy  in  his 
breast,  his  lungs  and  mouth  were  dry,  and 
his  legs  wreary.  Then  he  said  at  last:  "I 
will  die  among  my  people." 

He  turned  toward  the  village  of  Bede- 
graine,  and  with  his  last  strength  fled 
thither.  One  bratchet  fell  and  died,  but 
the  other  and  Sir  Tristram  followed  on. 
And  Marrok,  almost  spent,  reached  the 
village,  ran  into  a  yard,  stood,  and  panted. 
The  last  bratchet,  at  the  entrance,  fell, 
and  the  horse  stopped  for  weariness.  But 
Sir  Tristram  leaped  to  the  ground,  his 
short  spear  in  his  hand,  and  walked  up  to 
Marrok. 

Marrok  looked  him  in  the  eye  and 
thought:  "Better  die  from  friend's  hand 
than  from  foe's."  He  budged  not,  but 
waited  for  the  blow.  And  Sir  Tristram 
admired  him,  and  said:  "  'T  is  pity,  brave 
wolf,  but  thy  end  hath  come  at  last." 
236 


The  Hunting  of  Si?1  Marrok 

» 

He  raised  his  spear.  But  a  little  flit 
ting  figure  came  in  between,  and  behold, 
there  was  a  child  by  the  side  of  the  wolf! 
She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and 
covered  him  with  her  body.  And  looking 
over  her  shoulder  with  sparkling  eyes,  she 
cried  to  the  knight:  "  Thou  shalt  not  slay 
him!" 

"Stand  aside!"  cried  Sir  Tristram. 
"Child,  he  will  kill  thee!"  And  he 
sought  to  find  place  for  a  blow.  But  he 
might  not  hurl  his  weapon  without  strik 
ing  the  child,  and  as  he  hesitated,  the  men 
of  the  house  came  running,  and  with 
scythes  and  pitchforks  confronted  Sir 
Tristram.  "  Sir  Knight,"  cried  they  all 
in  one  voice,  "  hold  thy  hand !  " 

Sir  Tristram  stood  in  amazement. 
"This,"  he  cried,  "is  the  wolf  ye  all 
hate!" 

"  But  we  love  him !  "  they  answered. 

"He  killeth  your  swine  and  cattle." 

"Nay,"  they  protested.  "Since  he 
came  to  the  land  our  kine  feed  in  peace." 
237 


Sir  Marrok 

"  But  he  beareth  away  children !  " 

The  oldest  man  stood  out  before  the 
others,  and  spoke :  "  Sir  Knight,  listen. 
Last  winter  wras  a  snow-storm,  great  and 
terrible.  And  the  child  that  thou  seest 
here  was  bewildered  in  the  storm,  and 
though  wre  sought  for  hours,  we  might  not 
find  her,  and  the  cold  and  snow  drove  us 
within  doors  to  save  our  own  lives.  While 
we  waited  and  lamented, we  heard  a  scratch 
ing  at  the  door.  We  opened,  and  there  was 
the  child  in  the  drift  at  the  door,  and  this 
wolf  stood  a  little  wray  off.  In  the  snow 
were  no  other  marks  than  his.  He  had 
brought  her  home  on  his  back." 

"Is  this  truth?"  queried  Sir  Tristram, 
greatly  puzzled.  "  The  lady  said  - 

"Oh,  the  lady!"  cried  they  all.  And 
Sir  Tristram  heard  things  that  astonished 
him. 

At  last  he  mounted  again  his  wearied 
steed,  and  gave  gold  to  the  peasants  so 
that  they  should  bury  his  bratchet.  And 
while  the  wolf,  soul- weary  and  yet  glad, 
made  his  way  to  the  wood,  Sir  Tristram 
238 


The  Hunting  of  Sir  Marrok 

took  the  road  to  the  castle.  As  he 
went  he  met  his  squire  and  men;  but 
Hugh,  fearing  to  remain  in  the  forest, 
had  returned  to  the  castle.  Tristram  rode 
thither. 

From  the  castle  battlement  the  Lady 
Irma  spoke  to  Tristram;  but  reading 
much  in  his  face,  she  kept  the  gate  barred. 

"  How  now,  Sir  Tristram?"  she  asked  as 
if  eagerly.  "  Is  the  wolf  slain?  " 

"Lady,"  he  answered,  "the  wolf  hath 
escaped." 

"  Alas !  "  she  responded,  "  my  peasants 
will  lament." 

"  Out  upon  thee,  traitress !  "  cried  Sir 
Tristram,  fiercely.  "Deceiver  art  thou 
truly,  and  oppressor  of  thy  people.  Would 
thou  wert  a  man ! " 

She  laughed  without  words. 

He  turned  his  horse's  head  away. 
"Lady,"  he  said,  "I  shall  tell  of  thy 
deeds  among  knights." 

But   the   lady  still   laughed    serenely. 
Tristram  was  not  of  Arthur's  court,  and 
none  but  Arthur  did  she  fear. 
239 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HOW    SIR   ROGER   OF    THE    ROCK    QUIT 
HIM    OF    SIR   MORCAR 

"  How  shall  I  trick  him,  Irma,  Irma? 

How  shall  I  slay  mine  enemy?  " 
"Now  take  my  counsel  duly,  Morcar; 

Follow  the  plan  which  I  tell  to  thee." 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

THERE  came  a  day  when  the  archers 
of  the  lady,  riding  out  into  the  vil 
lages,  were  attacked  by  the  peasants,  and 
driven  back  within  the  castle.  So  now 
had  come  the  time  when  the  lady  had 
cause  for  thought,  and  to  her  counsels 
she  called  Morcar,  who  long  had  chafed 
in  his  castle  at  the  loss  of  Agnes  and  the 
escape  of  her  brother.  He  came  in  haste, 
for  he  hoped  that  now  something  would 
be  done,  since  for  some  time  Irma  had 
repressed  his  eagerness,  saying  that  they 
must  wait. 

240 


Of  Sir  Roger  and  Sir  M or  car 

"  Now,"  he  asked,  "  seest  thou  not  that 
I  was  right,  since  ever  the  other  party 
waxeth  stronger?" 

Then  they  had  words  unpl easing  to 
them  both,  for  both  were  heated  and 
somewhat  fearsome.  But  at  last  the  lady 
composed  herself  and  said :  'c  Now  talk 
we  sensibly,  else  is  no  good  done.  And 
you  and  I  must  depend  on  each  other,  or 
we  both  fall."  So  Morcar  was  appeased 
and  said  no  more  reproaches. 

"I  have  considered  our  strength  and 
theirs,"  said  the  lady.  "  Twenty  men-at- 
arms  have  I,  with  my  hundred  archers. 
Thirty  horsemen  have  you,  and  sixty 
bowmen.  And  only  a  score  of  men-at- 
arms  hath  Roger." 

"But  the  peasants?"  asked  Morcar. 
"  They  are  archers  all." 

"If  we  sit  in  quiet,"  answered  the  lady, 
"then  will  Roger  train  the  people  to 
arms,  and  overcome  us.  But  if  we  strike 
quickly,  we  can  overthrow  him." 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  Morcar,  gloomily. 
16  241 


Sir  Marrok 

Then  they  consulted  long,  calling  Hugh 
for  his  opinion;  and  when  they  separated 
they  went  to  the  armories  of  their  castles, 
and  chose  new  arms,  and  repaired  the  old, 
and  fed  the  horses  well,  and  made  all 
preparations  for  action.  And  Roger  in 
his  castle,  with  the  son  of  Sir  Simon,  was 
making  himself  strong;  but  he  was  not 
ready  against  the  scheme  of  those  others. 
And  so  passed  the  time  for  ten  days,  until 
a  night  came  when  the  moon  was  bright 
and  full. 

Upon  that  night  all  were  sleeping  in 
the  village  over  which  Sir  Roger  ruled, 
and  in  the  castle  itself  there  was  but  one 
man  to  watch.  And  Sir  Roger  lay  asleep 
in  his  chamber,  with  the  casement  open, 
for  it  was  a  summer  night.  Right  so  it 
seemed  that  into  his  dream  came  the 
howling  of  a  wolf,  and  he  writhed  long 
as  he  slept,  oppressed  by  the  noise,  before 
he  waked.  And  then  he  heard  that  it 
was  the  howling  of  a  wolf  indeed;  and 
there  was  but  one  wolf  in  all  Bedegraine, 
242 


Of  Sir  Roger  and  Sir  Morcar 

so  Sir  Eoger  started  from  his  bed.  Anon 
came  rapping  at  his  door  the  warder,  who 
said :  "  Sir,  the  wolf  howleth  without  in 
the  fields,  and  will  not  be  appeased." 

"  I  will  attend  him,"  said  Sir  Roger. 

Then  in  haste  he  threw  a  robe  upon  him, 
and  went  out  upon  the  battlements.  There 
he  saw  how  the  wolf  ran  to  and  fro  in  the 
fields,  crying  now  toward  the  village  and 
now  toward  the  castle,  and  his  great  form 
was  clearly  to  be  seen.  Anon  Roger  de 
scended  and  stood  above  the  castle  gate; 
and  the  wolf  saw  him,  and  came  to  the 
farther  side  of  the  moat,  and  stood  and 
bayed  at  him. 

"Now,"  quoth  Roger,  "there  is  mis 
chief  toward."  He  gave  orders  that  the 
castle  be  lighted  and  all  the  men  armed, 
and  quickly  it  was  done.  And  Roger 
saw  also  how  there  were  lights  appearing 
in  the  village.  But  he  went  down  to  the 
courtyard  and  opened  the  gate,  and  low 
ered  the  draw,  and  went  and  stood  by  the 
side  of  the  wolf,  who  ceased  his  crying. 
243 


Sir  Marrok 

"  Now,  good  wolf,"  said  Roger,  without 
fear,  "  what  is  it  that  thou  wishest  of  me? 
Shall  I  go  with  you  and  succor  some 
one?" 

But  the  beast  made  no  sign. 

"  Then  is  it  danger  to  me?  "  asked  the 
knight. 

Anon  the  wolf  turned  himself  and 
looked  toward  the  forest,  that  rose  blackly 
at  a  little  distance,  and  he  seemed  to  listen, 
and  then  to  whine,  and  then  to  listen 
again. 

"  So,"  said  Sir  Roger,  "  they  come 
against  me.  Well,  I  thank  thee  for  the 
warning.  I  will  prepare." 

Then  the  wolf  ran  off  into  the  fields 
toward  the  village,  and  presently  the 
knight  heard  him  crying  among  the 
houses,  as  if  he  were  saying:  "Haste  ye, 
and  arm!"  But  the  knight  went  again 
into  the  castle,  and  sent  out  men  to  watch, 
and  armed  every  one,  even  the  boys. 
Before  long  were  the  peasants  coming  to 
the  castle  with  such  arms  as  they  had, 
244 


Of  Sir  Roger  and  Sir  M or  car 

bringing  their  families  to  shelter,  for  the 
wolf  had  alarmed  them  all.  Sir  Roger 
took  them  in  and  gave  orders  that  all 
lights  be  put  out,  and  that  all  should  be 
silent,  for  he  had  made  a  plan.  And  still 
no  word  came  from  those  who  were  sent 
out  to  watch.  Then  the  knight  led  men 
out  into  the  fields,  and  himself  arranged 
them  in  hiding  in  the  ditches.  Then 
when  all  this  was  done  came  a  watcher  in 
haste,  to  say  that  there  were  noises  and 
movements  in  the  forest. 

Now,  while  so  much  was  being  done  at 
the  castle  of  Sir  Roger,  through  the  wood 
were  coming  men  on  horseback  and  on 
foot,  and  the  moonlight,  falling  through 
the  leaves,  glinted  on  their  arms.  Their 
leaders  were  Morcar  and  Hugh,  and  the 
men  marched  silently,  save  for  the  noise 
of  their  feet  and  the  rattle  of  their  arms, 
so  that  at  a  little  distance  they  could  not 
be  heard.  They  reached  the  border  of  the 
forest,  and  halted  while  the  leaders  looked 
upon  the  plain.  There  lay  the  hamlet  of 
245 


Sir  Marrok 

Sir  Roger,  but  there  were  no  lights  in  it; 
and  there  rose  the  castle,  dark  and  silent, 
so  that  all  was  as  they  had  hoped.  And 
the  men  began  to  issue  from  the  forest. 

Now,  though  they  marched  eagerly  to 
surprise  the  castle,  and  made  somewhat 
more  noise,  they  roused  no  answering 
sound.  They  left  the  village  on  the 
right,  and  went  by  a  bypath  till  they 
came  near  the  castle.  And  behold,  no 
watcher  walked  upon  its  battlements,  and 
the  drawbridge  was  down,  the  portcullis 
was  raised,  and  the  gate  yawned  wide. 
Then  the  men  hurried,  their  leaders  be 
fore  them,  till  they  were  at  the  moat. 
There  the  men-at-arms  dismounted 
quickly,  and  with  stealthy  steps,  won 
dering  but  triumphant,  they  went  in  a 
body  across  the  bridge,  and  entered  the 
courtyard.  But  all  was  still  within  the 
court,  and  Morcar  and  Hugh  began 
searching  for  the  doors  that  led  to  the 
passages  of  the  castle.  They  found  them, 
but  found  them  barred. 
246 


Of  Si?*  Roger  and  Sir  Morcar 

Then,  as  they  hesitated,  not  knowing 
how  to  force  the  doors,  but  all  talking 'in 
whispers  in  the  silent  court,  where  the 
walls  towered  high  above,  and  the  moon 
shed  its  light  down  among  them,  there 
came  upon  the  air,  from  a  distance,  the 
long  howl  of  the  wolf.  Those  outside 
were  startled,  and  those  within  listened. 
Anon  upon  the  battlement  rose  a  figure, 
drawing  a  bow ;  the  bow  twanged  sweetly 
in  the  night,  and  in  the  courtyard  a  man 
was  stricken  by  the  arrow. 

At  the  signal  the  walls  were  swarming 
with  men,  and  the  battle-cry  of  Sir  Roger 
rose.  Then  buzzed  arrows  down  among 
the  men  within  the  court,  and  rattled  upon 
the  armor  of  those  outside.  A  commo 
tion  began,  for  Morcar  and  Hugh  saw 
that  they  were  trapped,  and  they  shouted: 
"Back ! "  Then  all  struggled  for  the  gate 
way,  fearing  that  the  gates  would  be  closed 
on  them.  The  portcullis  rushed  in  its 
grooves,  striking  down  men,  and  the  chains 
creaked  as  the  drawbridge  began  to  rise. 
247 


Sir  Marrok 

And  only  the  hap  that  the  portcullis  fell 
upon  those  men  saved  any  of  the  others. 
For  it  did  not  reach  the  ground,  and  men 
wriggled  under  it  to  get  away.  The 
weight  on  the  bridge  was  too  great  for  it 
to  be  lifted  far,  and  the  chains  broke,  and 
back  it  fell.  Across  it  some  men  reached 
safety,  and  got  their  horses  and  mounted, 
and  among  them  were  Morcar  and  Hugh. 
But  twenty  men  were  either  killed  in  the 
courtyard,  or  else  yielded  themselves 
prisoners.  Then  Sir  Roger  and  his  men 
charged  out  across  the  bridge  as  the 
others  fled,  and  from  ditches  and  behind 
hedges  archers  rose  and  shot  at  the  men 
of  Hugh  and  Morcar.  Had  not  a  cloud 
come  to  obscure  the  moon,  few  would 
have  got  away;  but  in  the  darkness 
some  reached  the  forest,  and  gathered 
themselves  together,  and  made  their  way 
quickly  to  safety. 

But  thus  it  was  that  the  forces  of  Sir 
Roger,  and  the  forces  of  Irma  and  Mor 
car,  were  made  equal. 
248 


Of  Sir  Roger  and  Sir  Morcar 

Then  Sir  Roger,  in  great  ease  and 
lightness  of  heart,  sent  to  the  abbey  the 
news,  and  begged  that  Father  John  and 
all  the  monks  of  the  abbey  should  give 
thanks  for  the  good  fortune.  And  from 
that  day  he  began  on  the  lands  of  Morcar 
a  serious  war,  harrying  his  farms  and 
catching  his  men,  so  that  when  autumn 
came  Morcar  began  to  fear.  For  Roger 
knew  the  roads  of  the  forest,  and  his  men 
were  mounted  on  swift  horses,  and  they 
came,  and  struck,  and  went  again,  before 
ever  Sir  Morcar  could  strike  in  return. 
And  Morcar  saw  that  soon  he  would  lose 
all  his  men  by  such  means,  and,  because 
Roger  had  seized  his  harvests,  food  was 
short  in  the  castle,  not  sufficient  for  the 
winter. 

Then  he  went  to  Irma  and  complained, 
begging  her  to  help  him.  Now  Irma  had 
not  been  disturbed  by  Roger,  for  between 
them  had  not  yet  been  open  war,  and  there 
was  no  proof  that  any  of  the  men  slain  in 
Roger's  castle  had  been  Irma's  men.  So 
249 


Sir  Marrok 

Roger  left  her  lands  unharried,  for  he 
said:  "One  enemy  is  enough  at  a  time, 
and  when  I  have  finished  Morcar  then 
will  I  treat  with  the  lady,  and  demand 
that  she  yield  her  lands."  So  Irma,  for 
the  present  secure,  felt  little  disturbed 
at  Morcar's  complaints.  As  for  helping 
him,  she  said  that  half  of  her  men  were 
gone,  which  was  true,  so  that  she  could 
give  no  help.  And  she  scolded  that  Mor 
car  and  Hugh  had  been  so  easily  trapped, 
saying  that,  had  she  been  there,  that  fool 
ishness  would  not  have  been  committed. 
But  she  told  Morcar  what  he  could  do  to 
kill  Roger,  and  another  plan  was  formed, 
in  which  craft  should  take  the  place  of 
force. 

Then  Morcar  sent  a  message  to  Roger, 
with  these  words:  "It  seems  that  in  our 
quarrel  many  men  are  slain,  and  yet  the 
real  matter  concerns  only  thee  and  me. 
Therefore  I  challenge  thee  to  fight  me 
singly,  to  save  good  men's  lives,  an  thou 
darest  to  meet  me."  And  he  set  a  day, 
250 


Of  Sir  Roger  and  Sir  Morcar 

and  named  a  place  in  the  forest  where 
they  should  meet,  which  was  an  open 
space  and  grassy,  where  men  might  have 
good  room.  And  Morcar  would  come 
alone,  without  any  men;  also  should 
Eoger  come  alone,  without  any  men;  and 
they  two  would  fight  it  out  between 
them. 

Roger  answered  that  he  would  come, 
and  he  stilled  the  fears  of  his  wife,  and 
on  the  day  armed  himself  and  rode  to  the 
forest  alone,  bidding  all  that,  as  they 
loved  honor,  they  should  stay  away. 
"  And  if  I  come  not  at  nightfall,"  said  he, 
"  ye  shall  send  for  my  body."  So  he  rode 
confidently  into  the  forest,  and  met  Morcar. 

Now  Morcar  was  heavy  and  tall,  mighty 
of  blow  but  slow  of  movement.  And 
Roger  was  well-knit,  and  of  medium 
height,  and  quick  in  his  actions.  So  it 
promised  to  be  an  even  fight  between 
them.  But,  ere  they  commenced,  the  wolf 
walked  out  of  the  bushes,  and  lay  down 
as  if  to  watch. 

251 


Sir  Marrok 

'  Now,"  cried  Morcar,  in  alarm,  "  thou 
hast  brought  that  beast  to  aid  thee,  and 
he  will  spring  upon  my  horse." 

:cNay,"  said  Roger;  "I  knew  naught 
of  his  coming,  and,  moreover,  I  have  no 
power  over  him.  Yet  I  will  request  him 
to  go  away,  for  he  seems  almost  human." 
And  courteously  he  asked  the  beast  to  go 
away,  not  thinking  it  would  understand. 
To  his  surprise,  it  rose  and  went  into  the 
bushes. 

"But  how  know  I,"  cried  Morcar, 
again,  "that  it  comes  not  again,  when  I 
am  busy  with  thee?"  But  this  he  said 
with  cunning,  and  looked  into  the  bushes 
at  a  certain  spot.  And  with  satisfaction 
he  saw  that  the  bushes  moved,  but  with 
fear  he  heard  the  cry  of  the  wolf. 

Thereupon  a  struggle  began  in  the 
thicket,  and  men's  voices  sounded  chok 
ing,  and  a  man  with  the  wolf  on  his  back 
came  plunging  into  the  open,  and  fell  and 
died.  Then  Roger  looked,  and  saw  that 
it  was  one  of  Morcar's  men,  a  desperate 
252 


Of  Sir  Roger  and  Sir  Morcar 

fellow  well  known  in  Bedegraine.  And 
he  looked  farther,  and  saw  that  another 
man  lay  dead  in  the  bushes,  and  they 
both  had  borne  bows  and  arrows  where 
with  to  slay  his  horse. 

"  Now,  thou  liar !  "  cried  Roger,  fiercely, 
to  Sir  Morcar,  "  here  and  now  payest  thon 
for  the  treachery  which  thou  would st  have 
executed ! " 

And  the  Lay  says  that  they  fought 
there  for  a  half-hour,  and  seldom  was 
seen  such  a  fight.  For  Morcar  was  no 
coward,  and  he  was  desperate,  yet  Roger 
was  furious.  And  they  laid  on  strongly, 
neither  sparing  himself,  so  that  both  re 
ceived  wounds.  And  all  the  time  the 
wolf  watched  that  fight,  and  joyed  to 
watch  it,  for  he  foresaw  the  outcome. 
Slain  lay  Morcar  at  the  end,  and  the  wolf, 
crying  as  with  triumph,  went  away  into 
the  forest. 

And  thus  Irma  lost  her  last  outward 
help ;  yet  she  sat  secure  in  the  castle,  with 
her  archers  and  her  men-at-arms,  and  she 
253 


Sir  Marrok 

laughed  at  Sir  Roger  when  he  demanded 
that  she  yield  her  fief.  But  the  son  of 
Sir  Simon  was  put  in  the  castle  of  Mor- 
car,  and  he  ruled  over  the  lands  of  Mor- 
car,  and  over  his  own  lands.  Then  in 
the  two  castles  and  the  monastery  they 
consulted  much  together,  and  Bennet 
sometimes  stole  at  night  to  the  castle  of 
the  lady,  looking  to  see  how  strict  guard 
was  kept,  and  whether  in  any  place  the 
walls  of  the  castle  were  weak. 


254 


CHAPTER  XXYI 

OF    HUGH,  WHO    WOULD   HAVE   SLAIN  THE 
WOLF,  AND    OF    AGATHA    THE    NURSE 

He  armed  himself  at  the  break  of  dawn, 

He  clad  his  steed  in  the  best  of  mail. 
"  Let  the  beast  stand,  though  I  go  alone, 
And  to  me  the  wolf  shall  fall !  " 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

/GERTRUDE,  the  daughter  of  Irma, 
vJT  grew  tall  and  beautiful.  She  lived 
in  the  castle  like  a  flower  in  a  moss-grown 
wall,  and  lighted  it  by  her  presence. 
Therefore  it  came  naturally  that  Hugh, 
the  captain  of  the  archers,  wished  her  for 
his  wife. 

Hugh  was  stout  of  body  and  bold  of 
deed,  cruel  and  hateful.  He  served  the 
Lady  Irma  in  her  own  spirit,  and  she 
trusted  him.  He  called  himself  knight, 
but  he  was  none,  nor  yet  a  gentleman 
born.  So  for  a  while  the  lady  denied  him 
255 


Sir  Marrok 

the  hand  of  Gertrude,  putting  him  off 
from  time  to  time. 

But  one  day  Hugh  came  to  her  and 
said :  "  My  lady,  what  wish  ye  most  in  the 
world?" 

She  answered:  "  The  death  of  the  wolf." 

"Lady  Irma,"  he  asked,  "if  I  slay  the 
wolf,  wilt  thou  give  me  thy  daughter 
Gertrude  to  wife?" 

The  lady  thought,  but  not  long.  She 
answered:  "I  will." 

Hugh  said  with  joy:  "Make  ready  the 
bridal  dress,  for  the  wolf  dieth  soon." 

Now  Hugh  had  learned  that  Marrok 
slept  at  the  Druids'  Ring,  in  the  hut  of 
the  warlock,  where  Father  John  and  Ben- 
net  once  lived.  Loving  the  Lady  Ger 
trude  greatly,  he  dared  a  deed.  "I  will 
go  alone,"  he  thought,  "  and  seek  him 
out.  If  I  wear  my  shirt  of  mail,  he  can 
not  harm  me." 

He  put  on  beneath  his  doublet  a  fine 
shirt  of  chain  mail,  and  armed  his  horse 
as  if  for  a  tourney.  In  the  bright  morn- 
256 


Of  Hugh's  Craft  and  the  Wolfs 

ing  he  rode  out  from  the  castle,  and  went 
to  the  Druids'  Ring.  There  Marrok  lay 
sleeping,  but  he  waked  at  the  tramp  of  the 
horse.  When  Hugh  appeared  among  the 
great  stones,  the  wolf  stood  looking  at  him. 

Hugh  cast  a  javelin,  and  missed.  Then 
Marrok,  hearing  the  chink  of  chain  mail, 
and  seeing  it  was  useless  to  attack,  turned 
limping,  and  slipped  away  into  the  forest. 
"He  is  lame!"  cried  Hugh,  in  delight, 
and  gave  chase.  The  horse  with  his 
heavy  burden  could  go  but  slowly  among 
the  trees.  But  the  wolf  seemed  wounded 
and  sore,  and  Hugh  kept  him  in  sight. 
He  urged  his  horse  with  the  spurs,  and 
rode  eagerly.  "Nay,"  he  cried,  "the 
wolf  is  mine !  " 

But  go  as  he  might,  Hugh  could  not 
gain  until  he  came  out  upon  a  great  ledge 
which  overhung  the  quarry  where  once 
the  monk  Morris  had  near  lost  his  life. 
Below,  fifty  feet,  were  jagged  stones.  But 
the  ledge  was  broad  and  mossy,  and  the 
wolf  seemed  so  near,  limping  in  front, 
17  257 


Sir  Marrok 

that  Hugh  gave  a  shout  and  beat  the  horse 
with  the  flat  of  his  sword.  "I  have  him!" 
he  cried.  "I  have  him! "  And  the  horse, 
lumbering  into  full  speed,  lessened  the 
distance  betwreen  them. 

Then  the  wolf,  just  as  the  horse  was 
close  behind,  and  Hugh  leaned  forward 
to  strike,  leaped  nimbly  to  one  side.  His 
lameness  vanished.  For  one  instant  he 
waited,  until  the  horse  was  quite  abreast. 
Then  he  sprang  under  the  horse's  body, 
avoiding  the  blow  of  the  sword,  and 
caught  the  steed  by  his  farther  forefoot. 
Quickly  he  wrenched  backward,  and  the 
steed,  tripped  as  with  a  noose,  plunged 
and  fell  at  the  edge  of  the  crag.  But 
Hugh  was  hurled  into  the  depths. 

The  steed,  in  great  fear,  scrambled  to 
his  feet  and  fled  headlong.  The  wolf 
stood  listening.  From  below  he  heard  a 
mighty  crash.  Then  was  silence. 

That  very  day,  soon  after  noon,  Agatha 
wandered  into  the  mead  to  watch  for 

258 


"HUGH  WAS  HURLED  INTO  THE  DEPTHS. 


Of  Hugh's  Craft  and  the  Wolf's 

Hugh.  She  picked  crocuses,  and  at  the 
edge  of  the  wood  waited  long,  to  wish 
him  joy  of  his  success.  Then  she  spied 
flowers  in  the  forest,  earliest  snowdrops, 
and  went  into  the  wood  to  pick  them. 

She  heard  a  sound  behind  her,  and 
turned.  Almost  she  fainted  from  fright, 
for  there  stood  the  wolf,  gray  and  great. 
He  advanced  upon  her  slowly.  "Mar- 
rok ! "  she  cried,  and  fell  on  her  knees 
for  mercy. 

Still  he  advanced,  and  she  gained 
strength  from  despair.  She  sprang  up 
and  rushed  away,  ever  deeper  into  the 
forest.  Behind  her  trotted  the  wolf,  and 
at  each  glimpse  of  him  she  ran  faster. 
He  kept  between  her  and  the  castle,  and 
she  had  no  chance  to  return,  but  went 
always  farther  from  safety.  When  she 
had  gone  a  mile,  she  came  upon  the  forest 
road. 

There  at  the  edge  of  the  trees  was  a 
horse,  in  the  panoply  of  war,  cropping  the 
turf.  And  Agatha  ran  to  him  in  hope. 
261 


Sir  Marrok 

He  let  her  seize  the  bridle  and  mount. 
"'T  is  Hugh's  horse.  Hugh  must  be 
dead,"  she  thought.  "  But  I  shall  escape." 
She  headed  the  horse  to  the  north,  and 
urged  him  to  start. 

Then  into  the  road  came  the  wolf,  and 
the  horse  started  indeed.  Snorting  with 
fear,  he  ran,  and  the  wolf  for  a  little  way 
followed.  Then  Agatha,  looking  back, 
saw  that  he  fell  farther  behind.  At  last 
he  stopped,  satisfied,  for  he  knew  she 
would  not  return.  In  truth,  she  rode 
eagerly,  far  away,  into  the  country  of 
the  north.  Never  was  she  seen  again  in 
Bedegraine. 


262 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

OF    THE     STRANGER    KNIGHT   WHO     CAME 

FROM    THE    NORTH,    WHICH    BRINGETH 

AN   END    TO    THIS    TALE 

'T  is  far  the  outcast  lad  may  flee, 
And  wide  the  wanderer  may  roam ; 

But  soon  or  late,  before  he  dee, 
He  finds  the  way  to  his  father's  home. 

The  Lay  of  Sir  Marrok. 

HUGH  and  Agatha  came  no  more, 
and  a  new  life  began  for  the  Lady 
Irma — a  lonely,  irksome  life. 

She  was  shut  in  and  companionless. 
Her  one-time  friends  were  gone,  for  Sir 
Roger  had  slain  Sir  Morcar,  and  Father 
John  ruled  in  the  abbey.  No  longer 
might  she  ride  thither  for  merrymaking. 
And  in  the  castle  were  none  but  her  serv 
ing-maids,  her  archers,  and  her  daughter- 
Gertrude. 

Between  Gertrude  and  her  mother  was 
263 


Sir  Marrok 

no  affection,  but  only  tyranny  and  suspi 
cion.  The  mother  kept  the  daughter 
close,  watched  her,  checked  her,  and  com 
manded  her.  Therefore  she  received  not 
love,  but  patient  service.  Also  there  was 
no  heartiness,  for  Gertrude  could  not  but 
dislike  her  mother's  ways.  She  sat  silent 
in  her  presence,  and  Irma  complained 
angrily  of  her  sullenness.  Yet  it  was  not 
sullenness  —  merely  timidity  and  repres 
sion,  for  Gertrude  was  sweet  and  gentle. 
Thus  Irma,  bored  and  wrathful,  chafed 
in  her  castle.  And  a  constant  cause  for 
irritation  there  was,  that  the  peasants 
refused  her  all  supplies,  but  beat  off  her 
archers  when  they  were  sent  for  tithes. 
The  lady  might  not  send  to  the  abbey, 
neither  could  she  longer  depend  upon 
traveling  merchants.  For  the  road  from 
the  south  ran  through  the  village,  and 
the  peasants  warned  all  travelers  away, 
lest  they  should  pay  heavy  toll.  Sir 
Eoger  stopped  the  eastern  road,  and  the 
son  of  Sir  Simon  the  western.  The  wolf 
264 


Of  the  Young  Knight  and  Sir  Mar r ok 

himself  guarded,  day  and  night,  the  road 
from  the  north. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Irma  that  Marrok 
had  built  the  castle  as  a  very  granary, 
holding  food  for  five  years'  siege.  The 
great  chambers  had  always  been  kept  full, 
and  there  was  store  of  gold  and  wine. 
So  the  lady  lived  secure ;  but  she  bit  her 
fingers  in  impatience,  and  vowed  ven 
geance  on  all.  When  a  luckless  trader 
chanced  into  her  clutches  she  fleeced  him. 
If  she  caught  a  peasant  she  made  him  a 
slave.  And  when  knights  fell  into  her 
hands  she  held  them  long  time  for  ransom. 
She  feared  nothing,  and  laughed  away 
the  forebodings  that  sometimes  came, 
telling  her  the  end  was  drawing  near. 

One  day  there  rode  through  the  forest 
a  young  knight  coming  from  the  north. 
Strong  and  handsome  he  was,  brown- 
haired  and  blue-eyed.  It  was  in  May.  He 
hung  his  helmet  on  his  saddle-bow,  and 
looked  about  in  the  beautiful  wood.  The 
birds  sang  sweetly  among  the  trees,  the 
265 


Sir  Mar r ok 

sky  was  blue,  the  turf  was  green,  and  the 
first  daisies,  Chaucer's  darling  flowers, 
nodded  by  the  wayside.  His  heart 
laughed  and  his  eyes  danced.  Another 
knight  would  have  caroled  gaily,  but  the 
young  man  was  silent  by  nature,  and  he 
said  no  word. 

He  came  to  a  cross-road,  and  behold! 
across  the  southern  road  lay  a  great 
wolf,  gray  and  shaggy  and  scarred.  The 
horse  shrank  with  fear,  but  the  knight 
urged  him  on.  There  lay  his  way.  Then 
the  wolf  rose  and  fawned  on  the  young 
man,  as  if  to  turn  him  to  the  right  or  left. 
But  the  knight,  greatly  wondering,  kept 
the  horse's  head  to  the  southern  way,  and 
would  not  turn. 

Then  the  wolf  stood  in  the  path  and 
growled.  But  the  young  man  had  no  fear. 
He  raised  his  spear  and  threatened.  The 
wolf,  crying  as  with  a  human  voice,  van 
ished  in  the  forest,  and  his  cry  sounded 
often  as  the  knight  pursued  his  way,  com 
ing  now  from  the  right,  now  from  the 
266 


Of  the  Young  Knight  and  Sir  Marrok 

left.  But  the  sound  ceased  when  the 
knight  came  to  a  great  mead,  in  the  midst 
of  which  stood  a  castle. 

Perhaps  the  crying  of  the  wolf,  per 
haps  the  whispers  of  the  forest,  had  called 
strange  voices  to  the  young  knight's 
heart,  speaking  to  him  of  the  past.  As  he 
drew  rein  at  the  edge  of  the  wood,  it 
was  more  than  the  mere  beauty  of  the 
scene  that  made  the  castle  seem  to  him 
familiar,  even  kindly.  "  Mayhap,"  he  said, 
"my  search  is  ended."  With  childish 
memories  stirring,  and  hope  rising  fast, 
he  gave  no  heed  to  the  last  call  of  the 
wolf,  that  seemed  to  say:  "Back!  back!" 
He  rode  forward  to  the  castle. 

It  was  near  nightfall,  and  the  knight 
blew  his  horn  at  the  castle  gate.  He  was 
admitted.  A  lady,  beautiful  and  gracious, 
met  him  in  the  court.  "Welcome,  fair 
knight,"  she  cried.  "  Dismount  and  un 
arm  thyself,  and  come  to  the  feast.  I  am 
the  Lady  Irma  of  Castle  Bedegraine,  and 
thou  art  welcome." 

267 


Sir  Marrok 

The  knight,  with  slow,  grave  smile,  an 
swered  with  few  words :  "  Lady,  thou  art 
kind."  He  dismounted. 

The  archers  took  his  arms  and  armor,  a 
groom  his  horse.  The  lady  led  him  to  a 
great  hall,  where  the  young  man  paused 
and  looked  about.  "  Nay,  my  lady,"  he 
said,  with  brightening  face;  "were  it 
not  for  these  hangings  and  yonder  great 
banner,  I  should  think  I  had  ended  my 
search.  I  pray  thee,  under  the  banner  is 
there  not  a  shield  carved  in  stone,  and 
thereon  a  lion  couchant?  " 

Now  under  the  banner  was  the  shield 
indeed,  the  arms  of  Marrok,  which  the 
lady  had  covered  with  the  banner.  Yet 
she  answered:  "Nay,  there  is  no  carving 
there."  And  her  heart  leaped  in  her 
breast,  for  she  knew  from  his  slow  speech, 
and  from  his  question,  that  the  knight  was 
Walter,  Marrok' s  son. 

Now  Gertrude  had  come  into  the  hall, 
and  stood  at  her  mother's  back;  but  Irma 
did  not  see  her.  And  Walter,  looking  at 
268 


Of  the  Young  Knight  and  Sir  Marrok 

the  banner,  sighed,  and  said:  "Almost 
it  seems  the  same  hall.  Lady,  I  seek 
my  birthplace,  the  home  of  my  father, 
whence  years  agone  I  was  cruelly  driven. 
The  castle's  name  I  know  not,  nor  my 
father's ;  but  I  remember  the  hall  with  the 
carved  shield,  and  I  should  know  my  own 
little  chamber." 

Then  Gertrude  caught  her  breath,  and 
they  both  saw  her.  But  while  Walter,  in 
the  midst  of  disappointment,  looked  on 
her  with  a  sudden  strange  delight,  think 
ing  her  the  most  beautiful  girl  he  had 
ever  seen,  Irma  was  frightened  and  angry. 
She  cast  on  Gertrude  the  old  glance  of 
command,  and  the  daughter,  shuddering, 
knew  that  she  must  obey  her  mother,  even 
to  the  words  she  spoke. 

"  Gertrude,"  asked  Irma,  "  thou  art 
not  well?" 

"Kay,  mother." 

"  Then  go  to  thy  chamber."  And  Ger 
trude,  struggling  to  stay,  to  speak,  went 
from  the  hall, 

269 


Sir  Marrok 

Irma  turned  to  Walter.  "  Sir  Knight," 
she  said,  "  I  pray  thee  forgive  my  daugh 
ter's  intrusion.  She  is  ill-mannered.  But 
for  yourself,  prithee  wait  here  a  little 
space.  I  will  bring  a  spiced  drink  for 
welcome,  and  will  order  for  thee  fresh 
robes."  She  left  the  young  man  won 
dering  at  the  vision  he  had  seen,  and 
sought  her  secret  chamber. 

At  its  door  was  Gertrude,  who  marked 
the  look  on  her  mother's  face,  and  fell  at 
her  feet.  "Mother,"  she  cried,  "  what  go 
you  to  do?" 

"  Gertrude,"  said  Irma,  "  I  bade  you  go 
to  your  chamber." 

"  Mother,"  cried  Gertrude,  "  I  cannot. 
The  young  man  is  Walter.  What  wilt 
thou  do  to  him?" 

Irma  strove  to  fix  her  with  a  glance, 
but  she  failed.  Gertrude,  summoning  her 
will,  threw  off  Irma's  power,  even  at  this 
late  time.  "  I  will  go,"  she  said,  "  to  warn 
him." 

And  she  turned  away, 
270 


Of  the  Young1  Knig'Jit  and  Sir  Marrok 

But  Irma  seized  her  suddenly  by  the 
arms.  By  force  she  drew  Gertrude  to 
her  chamber,  thrust  her  in,  and  locked  the 
door.  "Now,"  she  said,  as  she  heard 
Gertrude's  cries,  "  do  thy  worst." 

Gertrude  leaned  from  the  window,  and 
there,  far  below  in  the  dusk,  on  the  edge 
of  the  moat,  she  saw  the  figure  of  a  man. 
"  Ho !  "  she  cried,  "  who  is  there?  " 

"  My  Lady  Gertrude,"  answered  a  cau 
tious  voice,  "is  it  thou?  I  am  old 
Bennet." 

"  Bennet,"  cried  Gertrude,  "fly  for  help! 
Here  within  is  Walter,  Marrok' s  son.  He 
knoweth  my  mother  not,  and  I  fear  for 
his  life!" 

But  though  she  saw  Bennet  hasten 
toward  the  village,  she  despaired.  The 
village  was  a  half-mile  thence,  and  it 
would  take  time  to  gather  men. 

Meanwhile   Irma   went    to   the    secret 

chamber,  and  shut  herself  in.     She  took 

wax,  and  warmed  it  at  the  brazier,  and  as 

she  warmed  it  she  thought.     Should  she 

271 


Sir  Marrok 

make  Walter  a  cat,  or  a  dog,  or  a  snake? 
Remembering  the  unexpected  deeds  of 
the  wolf,  she  thought  any  of  these  too 
dangerous.  So  when  the  wax  was  warmed 
she  modeled  with  it  swiftly  the  figure  of 
an  owl — the  small  brown  horned  owl.  She 
put  the  figure  on  the  little  shrine  on  the 
wall,  and  lit  before  it  three  candles,  one 
red,  one  blue,  and  one  green.  "  There," 
quoth  she,  "  let  him  hoot  in  the  forest, 
and  catch  mice !  " 

Then  she  took  her  vials  and  com 
pounded  a  drink,  and  all  the  while  she 
muttered  charms  and  spells.  And  bear 
ing  the  drink  in  her  golden  chalice,  she 
left  the  room  and  went  down  to  the  ban- 
queting-hall. 

Now  without,  in  the  forest,  the  wolf 
mourned  for  the  young  man.  Seven  years 
had  he  lived  in  Bedegraine,  but  never  had 
he  felt  so  drawn  toward  human  being  as 
by  this  stranger  knight.  A  great  sad 
ness  came  upon  him,  and  he  wandered, 
striving  to  throw  it  off.  But  instead  it 
grew  upon  him,  and  he  could  think  upon 
272 


Oftlie  Young  Knight  and  Sir  Mar r ok 

nothing  but  the  young-  man  lying  dead. 
And  Marrok  remembered  all  that  had 
happened  since  he  became  a  wolf:  how 
he  had  saved  Agnes  and  Andred  and 
Norris,  and  had  warned  Sir  Roger  and 
again  saved  him  from  treachery,  and  how 
he  had  led  Pellinore  to  the  rescue  of  the 
son  of  Sir  Simon.  But  now  he  saw  no 
rescue,  here  where  his  heart  was  most 
deeply  set,  so  that  he  was  willing  to  give 
his  own  life  for  the  young  man's.  For 
now  all  Bedegraine  was  prosperous,  and 
Marrok  had  done  all  that,  as  a  wolf, 
he  could  do,  and  he  saw  the  end  of  his 
usefulness  on  earth.  Then  suddenly,  as 
he  pondered,  wishing  to  give  his  life  for 
the  young  knight's,  he  saw  a  way.  And 
he  ventured  all. 

He  went  to  a  knoll  in  the  wood,  grown 
all  about  with  low,  thick  junipers  and 
cedars;  he  crept  into  the  thicket,  and 
came  to  an  iron  door  among  rocks.  And 
that  was  the  door  which  he  had  made  on 
the  advice  of  Merlin. 

Then  Marrok  pushed  upon  a  hidden 
18  273 


Sir  Marrok 

lever,  and  the  door  swung  inward.  He 
entered,  and  shut  the  door,  and  went  for 
ward  in  darkness.  The  passage  led 
straight,  then  curved,  and  Marrok  came 
upon  a  wall.  He  found  a  spring,  and 
pushed,  and  the  heavy  stones  moved  aside. 

This  time  he  was  on  a  stair,  up  which 
he  clambered.  Again  he  came  on  the 
solid  stone,  but  again  it  moved  at  his 
touch  on  a  spring,  and  let  him  pass.  And 
there  he  was  in  a  little  chamber,  lit  by  a 
lamp.  There  were  hangings  on  the  walls, 
books  on  shelves,  and  vials  within  cup 
boards.  In  one  place  hung  a  suit  of 
armor  —  his  own.  And  upon  the  wall 
was  a  little  shrine,  and  a  waxen  figure 
of  an  owl  thereon,  and  three  candles,  one 
red,  one  blue,  and  one  green,  burning  be 
fore  it. 

Then  he  understood  everything;  and 
hastily  rearing,  he  reached  at  the  shrine 
with  clumsy  forefoot,  meaning  to  destroy 
the  figure  of  the  owl.  The  figure  fell  to 
the  floor  at  his  touch,  and,  rolling  away, 
274 


Of  the  Young  Knight  and  Sir  Marrok 

hid  under  the  hangings.  The  wax  was 
still  warm  and  tough,  and  it  did  not 
break.  But  from  within  the  shrine,  as  it 
swayed  upon  the  wall,  fell  out  another 
figure,  and  broke  in  two  upon  the  stone 
flags  of  the  floor.  And  it  was  the  figure 
of  a  wolf. 

Then  Marrok,  standing  there  upright, 
felt  a  change  come  over  him.  The  fur 
vanished  from  his  body,  his  paws  became 
hands  and  feet,  and  his  limbs  were  those 
of  a  man.  Behold,  he  was  himself  again, 
clothed  in  the  robes  he  wore  when  he 
became  a  wolf! 

He  knew  the  change,  and  uttered  a 
great  cry  of  joy.  But  pausing  not,  he 
seized  from  the  wall  his  sword,  and  cast 
ing  down  the  scabbard,  hastened  from  the 
room.  Down  the  stone  stair  he  hurried, 
till  he  came  to  the  banqueting-hall,  and 
stood  at  the  door. 

Within  were  Irma  and  the  stranger 
knight,  and  she  was  playing  with  him,  as 
a  cat.  Marrok  heard  her  words.  c  Thou 
275 


Sir  Marrok 

art  Walter,  son  of  Marrok,  and  thy 
father's  castle  is  not  far  from  here. 
Pledge  me  in  this  wine,  and  I  will  tell 
thee  where  to  find  him." 

The  young  knight,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
took  the  chalice  from  her  hand.  "  Lady," 
he  said,  "  a  thousand  times  I  thank  thee 
for  this  news.  I  pledge  thee." 

But  Marrok  strode  forward  from  the 
door,  and  cried :  "  Drink  not !  "  And  Wal 
ter,  seeing  a  man  with  drawn  sword,  put 
down  the  wine  hastily  upon  the  table,  and 
seized  his  dagger. 

Then  Marrok  turned  to  Irma,  and  cried 
in  triumph,  "  Traitress,  thou  hast  failed !  " 
He  raised  his  sword  to  strike  the  cup  to 
the  floor. 

But  she,  thinking  he  meant  to  slay  her, 
snatched  quickly  at  the  chalice,  and 
drained  the  drink  to  the  dregs.  Then 
she  looked  the  knight  in  the  face,  and 
dropped  the  chalice.  "  Marrok !  Marrok ! " 
Those  were  her  last  words.  For  she 
changed  quickly  into  a  little  owl,  circled 
276 


MARROK  TURNED  TO   HIS  SON,    DROPPED   HIS  SWORD, 
AND   HELD   OUT   HIS  ARMS." 


Of  th e  Yo u n g  Kn igh t  and  Sir  Ma rro k 

upward,  found  an  open  window,  and  flew 
hooting  into  the  night. 

Marrok  turned  to  his  son,  dropped  his 
sword,  and  held  out  his  arms.  "  Walter," 
he  cried,  "  she  was  a  sorceress.  But  I  am 
Marrok,  thine  own  father !  " 

Long  was  their  embrace  and  loving, 
and  then  they  sat  and  told  each  other 
many  things.  But  after  a  while  they 
heard  a  great  commotion  in  the  castle, 
and  each  seized  his  sword,  fearing  the 
servants  of  Irma. 

Yet  it  was  Bennet  that  they  heard,  who 
had  come  with  help.  For  while  the  old 
squire  mustered  men  in  the  village,  but 
all  too  slowly,  there  had  ridden  up  Sir 
Roger  of  the  Rock,  and  Father  John, 
each  with  retainers.  All  together  has 
tened  to  the  castle,  and  forced  the  gate. 
Bennet  sent  the  peasants  to  the  servants' 
hall  to  surprise  the  archers.  Great  and 
complete  was  the  vengeance  that  the  peas 
ants  took.  But  Bennet  himself,  and  Sir 
Roger,  and  Father  John,  with  the  men-at- 
279 


Sir  Marrok 

arms,  rushed  to  the  banquet-hall,  and  it 
was  they  who  burst  in  the  door  upon  Sir 
Marrok  and  his  son. 

Joyous  was  the  greeting,  and  deep  was 
the  delight  of  all.  Gertrude  they  brought 
from  her  chamber.  She  hung  upon  Sir 
Marrok' s  neck,  and  Walter  was  delighted 
at  the  sight.  And  the  peasants,  throng 
ing  into  the  hall,  fell  upon  their  knees  and 
gave  thanks  at  the  sight  of  their  lord. 

Of  Irma,  who  had  become  an  owl, 
nothing  more  was  heard;  yet  an  owl  she 
remained,  for  that  waxen  image  had 
slipped  away  into  a  crevice  in  the  stone 
floor  of  the  little  chamber,  and  was  lost. 
But  Walter,  the  son  of  Marrok,  married 
Gertrude,  the  daughter  of  Irma,  some  six 
months  from  that  day.  And  all  the  land 
of  Bedegraine  was  happy,  except  that  the 
peasants  lamented  that  they  saw  the  great 
gray  wolf  no  more;  for  after  the  return 
of  Marrok  the  wolf  was  never  again  seen. 
And  Marrok  told  no  one  that  he  had  been 
the  wolf,  except  Walter  and  Gertrude 
280 


Of  the  Young  Knight  and  Sir  Marrok 

and  Father  John.  And  Father  John, 
growing  old,  wrote  all  this  in  the  Chron 
icle,  whence  Blaise  wrote  the  Lay  which 
minstrels  sang,  from  which  was  written 
the  story  that  is  printed  here. 


281 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


JUL  1U  1959 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


